


Midnight Blue

by BaredWolf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Angst, Big Bang Challenge, Blow Jobs, Bottom Castiel, Canonical Character Death, Community: deancasbigbang, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2014, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Romance, Swearing, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 10:02:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2577485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaredWolf/pseuds/BaredWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Castiel were college roommates and best friends - and they might have been more, but never quite figured it out. Life tore them apart, and kept them apart for a decade, but then it gave them a second chance. But will either be willing to risk losing their best friend over something as silly as love?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a part of the [2014 Dean/Castiel Big Bang](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/). Illustrated by [propinquitous](http://propinquitous.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> [Art masterpost ](http://propinquitous.tumblr.com/post/101972103347/dcbb2014)
> 
> Listen to the [soundtrack here](http://8tracks.com/baredwolf/midnight-blue-mix).
> 
> A/N: A million thanks to the lovely [propinquitous](http://propinquitous.tumblr.com/) for all of her hard work and putting up with me throughout this effort. She put incredible love into this project and words cannot express my appreciation.  
> Further thanks to my beta reader, [wheretimeisneverplanned](http://wheretimeisneverplanned.tumblr.com/) for all of her help and insights. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

****

**Prologue**

_Spring 2015_

"So this is it?" Dean mused, fingers twisting the warm band of metal that now encircled the third finger of his left hand. 

"You're disappointed?" Castiel replied and he bumped his shoulder against Dean's, his voice half laughing to conceal the worry in his tone. The music from the reception hall was muffled by the doors, relief and nervousness still fighting for control of his emotions. He picked at his bowtie, anxious to be rid of it. Dean brushed his hands out of the way, straightening it for him.

"It's just, all of it, everything, this was the big goal, this was the target I was chasing forever." Dean linked their fingers together, then drew Castiel's hand closer to fiddle with Castiel's wedding band.

"Exactly how long have you wanted to marry me, Winchester?" Castiel teased. 

Dean rolled his eyes at his husband. His face softened when his eyes met Castiel's, and he glanced away as he replied, "long enough." His eyes snapped back to Castiel's. "And you're sure about this? About becoming a Winchester? We aren't exactly the Brady's." It was Castiel's turn to roll his eyes. 

"Either you have a very poor memory, or you're convinced that I've somehow forgotten a lifetime of dealing with my own family." Dean's brow furrowed worriedly. "I'm certain," Castiel clarified. 

"Good," Dean replied, snark slipping  back in with his relief, "No take-backs." He ran his thumb over Castiel's ring again. 

"It isn't an ending, you know," Castiel said, as they let their hands fall to their sides, still joined.

"No?" Dean replied.

"This is just the beginning."

"In our first beginning, we couldn't stand each other." Dean laughed. Cas had driven him nuts, if he was honest. 

"Maybe we should start things out on a friendlier note this time, then," Castiel replied, pulling his husband close. Dean grinned and let himself be pulled into a kiss. 

Inside the reception hall, the DJ bellowed out their introduction. 

"And introducing, for the first time, Mr. and Mr. Winchester!"

* * *

**Part 1**

It all started, as these things sometimes do, with two people meeting. Two people meeting and discovering that they cannot _stand_ each other.

\---

_August 2004: Louisiana State University, Baton Rouge, Louisiana_

"Hey," Dean said, jamming a foot against the door to keep it from slamming shut behind him as he set down the duffel in his arms and extended a hand to his new roommate. "Dean Winchester." He smiled at the guy, felt it edge towards flirty, even as he tried to rein himself in ( _it doesn't' matter if he's got sex hair and the blues eyes ever, he's your roommate dumbass_ ). But the guy was just standing there, kind of frozen and staring, before he tipped his head slightly to the side and regarded Dean with an expression somewhere between confused and surprised. Dean waggled his fingers a little, hoping the guy would take the hint, grinning a little wider and trying his damnedest to seem friendly. 

"Castiel," the guy finally replied, glancing at Dean's outstretched hand before swallowing, turning, and not-quite-running into one of the rooms. 

"Nice to meet you?" Dean called out Castiel's retreating back. _Well, shit._ Maybe the roommate lottery had been a bad idea after all, he considered. 

Jo barged in behind Dean, bearing a cardboard box as big as she was. 

"Where do you want this, Winchester?" she asked, when he stood there dumbly staring after Castiel. _Weird_. 

"Uh, I guess this one's mine," he replied, making for the door on the wall opposite the one Castiel had just disappeared through. This could be a very long year.

—-

Castiel listened to them, ear pressed shamefully to the hollow wood of his bedroom door. What was he thinking? He had panicked, that was what he was thinking. Because fuck his life, his new roommate was _really_ gorgeous. 

And he had a heavy course load this semester, and he was expected to "meet certain standards", he thought, the words echoing through his mind in his big brother's voice. He couldn't afford distraction. 

* * *

"He's driving me nuts," Dean hissed, wondering if his phone call would be audible from Castiel's room as he snuck into their kitchen. 

"Oh, come on, Dean," Sam answered, through a mouthful of whatever the hell he was eating, "he can't be _that_ bad. I mean, you've only been living together, what, a week?"

"Dude flew off the handle because I spelled his name wrong," Dean answered. He had been so right that it was a bad idea to go in for the roommate lottery. Sure, he needed a roommate to afford to live off campus, but this was not going the way he had expected. "Who is even named Castiel in the first place?" Dean griped. "I mean, I figure I'm doing the guy a solid by calling him Cas since that sounds slightly less douchey. So I wrote his name on a note to buy more milk because he fucking drank it all or used it in an experiment or something, and he actually shouted at me about it."

"What, you spelled Castiel wrong?" Sam asked, or at least Dean was pretty sure that was what he had asked, because it sounded mostly like crumbs. 

"No, I spelled 'Cas' wrong. I used two S's." Like his ex, Cassie. It made sense, Dean would swear. "It's only one s, and he damn near ripped me a new one over it."

"You guys are really at each others throats over the littlest shit," Sam said.

"Don't cuss," Dean replied, wandering towards the kitchen, because listening to Sam eat was making him hungry. "Yeah. I mean, I might end up killing him." _Well, probably not_ , he though. _Maybe_. "Either that or he's kinda growing on me. I mean, he's a weird little dude, and...weird." _And cute_ , Dean's ever helpful mind supplied, which was useless and it wasn't as if it mattered since there was just. No way. 

"Cas with one s," Sam said. "I mean, at least he let you give him a nickname in the first place."

"Huh," Dean answered. That part hadn't occurred to him. For sixteen, Sam was way too observant. Because a week in, and Cas hadn't fussed about his nickname once, until Dean didn't spell it right. He grabbed a fistful of pretzels out of the giant tub on the counter, shoving a few in his mouth. He pointed at his chest, fingers clumsy with their carb-y burden, as he asked indignantly, "Shouldn't _I_ get to decide how it's spelled then?"

"Can't hear you when your mouth's full," Sam mumbled around his own snack.

"Sophomore year is gonna be a total bust, Sammy," Dean complained. 

* * *

_September_

 Dean tried to get along with Castiel, he swore, he really did. He didn't leave dirty dishes in the sink or play his music loud (because headphones, thanks) or any of that other annoying roommate stuff. Yet Castiel seemed constantly uneasy, and Dean couldn't figure out what exactly this guy's deal was. His frustration built as the weeks wore on.

 

> Sam,
> 
> You're probably too busy doing your homework to read this, but I'm gonna write it anyways. My new roommate - the one we talked about last week, Castiel - it is not working out. He's a robot, a  fucking alien, and he walked in on me [illegible] - well, he doesn't knock. I dunno, man, I mean the place is awesome and he cleans up after himself (kinda) but he's just so different. Call me back, bitch. 
> 
> D.

* * *

The weeks wore on, and slowly the wall Castiel seemed to have built between them developed cracks. Slowly, at first, and then the cracks joined together like a spiderweb, the wall crumbling away, and one day Dean came home and found they had become friends when he wasn't looking.

\---

"What the hell are you doing, Cas?" Dean demanded, dropping his back pack next to the door. It slammed shut behind him, but the noise was barely audible above the blaring fire alarm. 

"I was, uh," Castiel said, fanning at the smoke billowing from the oven. Dean grabbed a towel and reached in, pulling a blackened pizza out and dumping it in the sink. He turned on the water, trying to quell the smoke still rising from the charred food. 

Castiel helped him open the windows, turning on the exhaust fan over the stove - trying to clear out enough smoke so the alarm would shut off. At least they lived in a crappy old building with a campus landlord who really didn't give two shits about things like "building code" and "life safety measures", so there was no way the _fucking obnoxious_ alarm was hardwired to call the fire department. 

"I tried to make dinner," Castiel finally explained, running a hand through his sweaty hair. He stared at his bare feet on the linoleum kitchen floor, patches of sweat darkening his grey t-shirt. "But I got distracted," he explained sheepishly, waving vaguely towards the books spread over the coffee table and floor in a way that told Dean that Castiel had been…well, _Cas_ , when Castiel was thinking hard. Dean sighed, but at the same time, he felt warmth blooming in his chest - Castiel may have fucked up dinner, but it was somehow endearing? _Careful, Winchester._

"Yeah, well, maybe leave that to me, huh Martha Stewart?" Dean teased, keeping his voice gentle. And when had he started liking Castiel? The guy absolutely drove him nuts, but Dean wasn't sure if he was developing a tolerance or Castiel was just awesome-despite-the-annoying-ass-shit, and it had taken him a few weeks to notice. Because he and Castiel had become friends, somewhere along the way, and...well. It wasn't a bad thing at all. 

"It is not my forte," Castiel agreed. "Um, I think we still have bread and peanut butter. Otherwise we'll need to go to the store." Castiel was staring at his feet again and Dean suddenly desperately wanted to give him a giant hug. _Boundaries. Have some_ , he chided himself. Instead of hugging, he pushed past Castiel in the narrow galley kitchen, letting their shoulders brush and patting his friend on the back. 

"I got this, buddy," Dean said. 

"I'd probably manage to cut myself with the butter knife," Castiel laughed, sounding a little bitter. 

"And they seriously still let you in the chem lab?" Dean teased. How Castiel could focus for hours on an experiment, ensuring every single detail was correct, but couldn't heat up a frozen pizza without burning it still escaped him. 

"It's interesting," Castiel sighed. He leaned a hip against the counter and watched as Dean prepared dinner, his books temporarily forgotten. 

* * *

_October_

Castiel wondered exactly what in Dean's childhood had lead to him having such an emotional connection to his car. Because sure, it (sorry, Dean, _she_ ) was nice. Actually, sexy as hell if Castiel was honest with himself. Which in this case he preferred not to be. Because cars weren't really his thing, and he was pretty sure that the thrill of riding in her had more to do with her driver than anything else. Because the excessive machismo? Castiel had seen repression before, had seen compensation. And he wished Dean would realize that he had nothing to compensate for. So, yeah, he appreciated the car. But he mostly appreciated her wayward owner. 

More than he should, he scolded himself constantly. He had tried to lock in an iron resolve on the day he met Dean. But it was slowly but surely failing him: Dean Winchester was turning out to be a distraction that Castiel just couldn't ignore. 

He burned dinner a few more times, but more and more often, it wasn't his books that had distracted him. 

* * *

_December_

 

> Sam,
> 
> Apparently we have adopted a jumping spider as our pet. Cas assures me that this is okay because there's nothing in our lease against it. I tried to explain that you don't keep a _spider_ as a _pet_ , but…well, you know what he's like. It lives mostly on the wall in our living room. Cas thinks he'll set it outside once it warms back up. And yeah, we've talked about how fifty degrees doesn't actually qualify as cold. He doesn't believe me. I'm dragging him home with me for Christmas, since his family apparently isn't doing anything. Although I think maybe he's just avoiding them. Anyways, you'll get to meet Cas - hold on to your butt.
> 
> Dean

* * *

_January_

Cas was always shocking Dean regardless of season: static electricity seemed drawn to him like stray cats to a fresh bowl of food. Sometimes Dean wondered if it was because Cas had lightning in his bones, if it was bursts of himself escaping into the larger world. He came to expect the shocks, even seek them out, rustling Cas's hair as he passed through the room headed nowhere in particular. 

* * *

_March_

 

> Sam, 
> 
> Hanging out with losers will shrink your junk. (Trust me.) You need better friends. There's a bus ticket in here for your spring break.
> 
> Yours in awesomeness,
> 
> Dean

—-

 

> Sammy,
> 
> Cas is doing awesome. I can't believe you bought him a guinea pig. That thing squeaks ALL the time (Cas claims he's _talking_ ) and Cas is sitting here feeding it carrots while I'm writing [illegible]
> 
> Sam, Lucifer is doing well - 
> 
> Ignore Cas, Sam.
> 
> You're a giant nerd, and you're gonna win the science fair, I don't care how many years in a row Eric has won. 
> 
> We can't wait until you visit again.
> 
> D.

* * *

_May_

"Dude. Relax. You're driving me nuts," Dean said, grabbing Castiel's foot from where it rested in his lap and shaking it. Castiel was tense, his face drawn tight, and he would not stop bouncing his legs. 

"I can't seem to relax," Castiel said, masterfully stating the obvious.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" Dean asked, holding onto Castiel's foot now, a firm grip but not ungentle. 

"That exam," Castiel sighed. "I don't think Professor H likes me."

"So you think he'll fail you just because he's an ass?" Castiel had been terrified of his Organic Chemistry final exam for most of spring semester, and taking it didn't seem to have eased his anxiety at all. Dean rubbed his thumb absently at Castiel's ankle, and Castiel dropped his other foot into Dean's lap. 

"Dean." Dean ignored the way his heart stuttered when his eyes met Castiel's. They were friends, that was it, and it was _great_.

"Look, if he doesn't like _you_ , then he _is_ an ass. But Cas, the dude's not gonna fail you. I'm sure you did awesome."

"There was a point when you didn't like me," Castiel reminded Dean softly. 

"Yep. And I'm a certified grade-a ass," Dean grinned. Castiel sighed and rolled his eyes at him. 

"Did you sign the lease renewal?" Castiel asked. 

"Nah, thought I'd take my chances on the lottery again," Dean teased. Castiel's glare had an almost-physical impact. "Yeah, I signed it, Cas," he said. "'Course I signed it." Castiel smiled at him, and Dean had to look away. 

* * *

_July_

"Lose the tie," Dean suggested. Castiel's brow knit in concentration as he untied the length of blue fabric from his neck. 

"Better?" He asked, nerves making his eyes bright. Dean wanted to hug him, tell him not to go: couldn't they have fun, the two of them, and Castiel didn't need to go on this date. But he was being hypocritical, he thought: he went on dates regularly, and "dates" (where the only prelude to sex was a text message or a few drinks at whatever bar they happened to meet at) at least as often. Castiel should get out, have fun. It was a good idea. Right?

"I can't let you do this," Dean said, the words escaping from him in a rush of air. Castiel looked at him, sharp and surprised, fingers frozen where they were fussing with his collar. _Cover, Winchester, fast._ "I can't let you go out like that." Castiel tipped his head to the side. Well, confused was an improvement over suspicious. _This girl had better damn well appreciate you_ , Dean thought. "Uh, undo the buttons." 

Castiel's eyes locked on Dean's as his nimble fingers unbuttoned his shirt. _Say when. Now. Say it._

"Yeah, yeah, okay that's enough." Dean cleared his throat. "Yeah, good, alright." 

\---

Dean was confusing the hell out of him. He'd gotten all shifty when Castiel barged into his room dressed for his date. (Dean hadn't been watching porn this time, Castiel was sure; he'd gotten good at knowing when to knock.) But still, Dean had flushed and shifted uncomfortably for a moment before telling Castiel that he would come to his room in a minute to give him some pointers. It had taken Dean almost three minutes to show up though, and Castiel was feeling antsy by the time he did. 

Now, Dean was regarding him with unusual intensity, and Castiel wasn't sure why he liked the warmth that thrummed through him in response. It make his skin feel tingly. He needed to be relaxed, confident - he wanted to impress Sarah. She was smart, really and truly clever. He enjoyed talking to her, which was something of an anomaly in his social life. And she ended up being in a lot of his classes. (That was how they'd met, started talking, even studying together occasionally.) And then when it turned out that they were both staying around town for the summer. Well. He probably wouldn't have ever asked her out, really, though, he just wished he knew her a little better, but she has apparently taken a "shine" (ridiculous phrase, but Dean had laughed when he used it earlier) to him, and he had said yes to dinner. 

Dean's fingertips brushed his collarbones as he straightened Castiel's collar. Castiel felt himself heat: _why_ had he said yes? 

Maybe because of the night before she asked, where he had barely slept listening for sounds from Dean's room. It was another of his "dates", but this one didn't leave until the morning and he couldn't sleep. _What was I so afraid of missing?_ In the morning, the guy had snuck out early. Dean had smiled dopily at him when Castiel came into his room, brought him coffee in the blue mug that Dean liked best. _Keeps the coffee hot, better, Cas_ , he had said when Castiel asked, but Castiel wasn't sure it wasn't just because Dean loved the familiarity of always using the same mug. Dean liked stability, familiarity. 

That morning, like so many others, managed to find a special place in Castiel's memory despite the preceding night: Dean propped up against the headboard of his bed, Castiel against the wall at the foot, his toes dug under the blankets as Dean croakily asked him about his plans for the day. The sunlight glancing off of Dean's rumpled hair ( _don't think about someone else's fingers_ ), the hem of the sleeve on his tee shirt rolled up from where he has shifted in his sleep. Castiel never felt more at home than he did in the mornings, sitting in Dean's bed, watching him drink coffee out of that blue mug. 

He wanted to touch Dean's hair now, see how it looked rumpled in lamplight instead of sun, wanted Dean to tell him it would be okay for him not to go - wanted Dean to ask him to stay. But Dean smiled at him, taking his hands from Castiel's now-straight collar, and stepping back. 

"Go get 'er, tiger," Dean said softly. Castiel took a deep breath and nodded, accepting the Impala's keys from Dean's hands. 

\---

Dean sighed and flopped onto the couch as soon as the door closed behind Cas. This was a good thing. It didn't actually matter how he felt about Castiel, he admonished himself - dude was straight.  Dean was like, probably 90% sure. Except that sometimes Castiel blushed when Dean invaded his space, despite the fact that Castiel lacked a concept of personal boundaries. But no. Castiel was his best friend. He could be satisfied with that, he swore to himself. Be satisfied with Castiel worming his cold toes under the blankets every morning while they drank coffee. Be satisfied with Castiel's feet in his lap when they watched TV. Be satisfied with his weird shower schedule and weirder experiments. Be satisfied with the way Castiel would sometimes wear one of Dean's shirts because he wasn't careful when he sorted the laundry. The sight of Castiel staggering into his room every morning, hair a riotous halo of spikes, Dean's favorite coffee mug in his hands. 

He picked up the plastic model from the coffee table: some molecule or another that Castiel was studying this week. Balls and sticks arranged in a fashion that was supposed to convey information. But its meaning was as unclear to him as Castiel's had been that evening: something was Up, with a capital U, but Dean wasn't quite sure what it was. 

But there was no way Castiel was into him, Dean told himself again. The guy was so intense, wore his emotions in such a heart-forward manner, that there was no way that Dean wouldn't know if he was interested. And it wasn't like Castiel did casual hookups, let's-see-how-we-fit kind of stuff either. _Also, not everyone is actually bisexual, Winchester_ , he reminded himself. Some people were actually, totally straight. And Castiel was one of them. 

How did that song Castiel had been listening to yesterday go? "I'd rather be working for a paycheck than waiting to win the lottery," [first day of my life-bright eyes] Dean sung to himself. Castiel had kind of unaccountable taste in music, but those lyrics sounded about right. 

He just hoped Castiel would be showing up in his room tomorrow morning. 

\---

It would have been better to stay in, Castiel thought. His date with Sarah was a total bust. She was interesting, and easy to talk to - but there was no spark. And he could tell that she could tell. 

Yet despite the fact that he absolutely enjoyed Sarah as a person, by the time they had finished their meal, Castiel was barely able to focus. He'd rather be at home with Dean, doing the same thing they did most nights. 

"You know, I was in love once," she said. He wasn't quite sure what she had been talking about the moment before, but it seemed he had somehow prompted her non sequitur. 

"You were?" he asked, willing himself to focus. 

"I know what it's like," she said, smiling as she laid her hand on his forearm. "Makes it hard to think about anything else." Castiel felt very confused. He wasn't in love. Right? Her lips quirked in an almost-smirk as she continued, withdrawing her hand. "Of course, _he_ wasn't in love. He smashed my heart into teeny tiny pieces, in the end." She watched him as she took a bite of her ice cream. "But everything worth having requires taking risk to attain it." He frowned slightly. He wasn't in love. Why did she think he was in love with Dean? He supposed that already being in love could complicate the whole dating situation. But he needed to carve out his own life. Dean certainly had - and it wasn't healthy to waste away pining over a man whose longest relationship had been barely two weeks. Dean wasn't interested in an actual relationship - and Castiel realized he'd be lying to himself if he thought he could settle for anything less.

"You should tell her," Sarah said. 

Castiel felt his heart sink. _Her_. Sarah didn't have a clue. Which meant - because _this_ was clearly the opportune moment for self examination - that at least some part of him did think he was in love with Dean. 

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," he replied, and when she cocked her head owlishly, spoon in her mouth, he elaborated: "I don't think it's mutual." 

"Well," she said, popping the spoon out of her mouth, "you'll never find out if you don't ask." 

He told Sarah he would call her, but they both knew it would only be as a friend. 

—-

Dean was already awake, almost as if he had been waiting, when Castiel brought him coffee the next morning. 

* * *

_September_

"If it gets any hotter, we're transferring to Antarctica," Dean grumbled. He kicked at a leaf on the sidewalk, shoulder bumping into Castiel's. Three weeks into classes, and the heat of summer had yet to relent. 

"I don't think there's a branch campus there," Castiel replied, brushing his hair out of his eyes. The heat and humidity had rendered it limp and sweaty, and it flopped right back into his eyes. "Although I see your point." 

"Hey, Clarence," Meg Masters drawled, approaching from another walk on the quadrangle. 

"Hello Meg," Castiel replied, even as he felt Dean bristling next to him. 

Meg's smile turned to a sneer as she regarded Dean, cutting him off as he was about to speak. "Yeah, yeah, A and B conversation or something equally lame, I'll leave you two lovebirds to it. Clarence, if you ever get bored, though," she smiled, and there was that warmth in her eyes that had held his attention - momentarily, and a year ago - "you know where to find me." 

"Fuck off," Dean muttered under his breath as she continued down a different sidewalk. "Why'd you even date her, Cas? 'Cause she'd have to be a hell of a wildcat in bed to justify putting up with that personality." Castiel felt his face heat, despite the fact that he was already sweating. 

"Well," he replied. It wasn't just the shallow warmth in her eyes that had borne them through those few hookups... _wild_ was a good word for it, he supposed. Although he'd really rather not talk to Dean about it. Meg only ever seemed to approach him when they were together, these days, almost like she was trying to make Dean jealous. A hollow, wasted effort, unfortunately. 

"Well?" Dean repeated, amusement and interest in his tone. "Cas, my man, do tell." 

"Dean," Castiel said flatly. They'd been over this. They didn't share detail on their hookups - although they had at first, as friends sometimes do, it quickly became too much for Castiel to handle. It made him uneasy, even before he had understood the source of that unease. It disrupted the quiet of their mornings, invaded the sanctuary of that time together. Besides, he didn't need the play by play the morning after a sleepless night of listening to Dean rock some girl's (or, more and more frequently these days, he was fairly certain it had been a guy's) world. The emptiness it often left in Dean was pain enough. It wasn't long after the first time Castiel had gotten massively uncomfortable during one of Dean's tales that Dean had stopped asking Castiel for detail on his (far fewer) dates. Mutual agreement then - even if Castiel couldn't be sure of Dean's reasons, it was better this way. 

"Yeah, yeah. Fine. Good riddance, anyways, even if she was a hell of a screamer."

"Dean!"

* * *

_October - Halloween_

"I don't see how becoming more intoxicated will increase my chances of 'scoring'," Castiel complained.

"Don't make fucking air quotes," Dean hissed, handing one of the solo cups full of shitty beer to Castiel. "That's guaranteed to _reduce_ your chances." He scanned the room, observing bodies crowded close together, drunken laughter spilling over the pounding of the music. "What about her?" he asked, nodding towards an attractive blonde wearing some kind of combination of lingerie and animal ears. Obvious, but it worked for her, Dean reflected. Castiel took a long drink of his beer, draining half the cup. "Slow down, Casanova."

"Please stop calling me that." Castiel looked wide-eyed, frightened, even though this had been his idea.

"Come on, man, I'm supposed to be your wingman tonight," Dean teased, nudging Castiel's wings. Leave it to Castiel to pick out fluffy white angel wings, and insist that wearing them over his normal clothes constituted a halloween costume. It wasn't nearly as cool as Dean's cowboy ensemble, in any case. His boots were authentic and everything. 

An hour and four or more odd beers later, Dean was still failing at wingman duty. Although Castiel wasn't exactly pulling his own weight, uninterested in every girl (and, in a fit of desperation, the _very_ cute guy) that Dean had pointed out.

"Can we just…can we just dance for a while?" Castiel asked, voice barely audible over the music. 

"Yeah, sure," Dean replied, resigned to Castiel's antisocial tendencies. The guy could score, easy, if he wanted to. Dean was a good judge of these things, he thought, mentally patting himself on the back. (Hell, he'd hit on Castiel if Castiel wasn't…well, if he didn't think it'd send Castiel running.) But Castiel hadn't really seemed interested in any of the options Dean had presented, more like frightened or put off. Dean knew Castiel wasn't inexperienced, plus he was cute and likable as hell, so Dean was convinced that Castiel was more than capable of hitting it off with the right girl. If he could find her. Maybe dancing would help loosen Castiel up a bit. 

He let Castiel hook their fingers together, towing him along to the smaller, darker room filled with splotches of colored lights where the bodies writhed closer together, humidity and pounding music competing to overwhelm his intoxicated senses. Castiel turned to face him, and Dean found himself staring dopily into Castiel's eyes. Goddamn, but Castiel was attractive. Which should be making this wingman thing easy, he reminded himself, but a small smile played at Castiel's lips and Dean suddenly wondered if Castiel had a different agenda. Wondered drunkenly, he realized, his mind wandering loosely through a thickening fog of booze: he was drunk. He hadn't felt the force of it until now, until he reached for his usual defenses and safeguards that kept those kinds of feelings squashed down deep where they belonged, and found that they were gone. He tried not to panic, and found himself failing spectacularly. Electricity zinged up his arm where his fingers were connected to his friend's, his heart pounding. 

Castiel had led him fully into the room, now, still facing him as they joined the dancers. The mass of bodies subsumed them into it, welcoming them into the heat as they began to move in rhythm with it, bodies close. Dean's heart caught in his throat as one of Castiel's hands found his hip, gripping tightly, before he realized that Castiel had just nearly lost his balance when another dancer's costume tangled with his. He held on to Castiel's shoulders, steadying his friend. 

"Alright?" he said, lips against Castiel's ear as he shouted, still not sure he would be heard. Castiel pressed closer, tipping his head up slightly, his hot breath against Dean's skin blocking out all other sensation. 

"Crowded," Castiel responded, not moving away, his other hand on Dean's waist now, and now they were definitely dancing together, and Dean wondered if he should have stopped about six beers ago, but no: Castiel had started this. Right? He wasn't taking advantage of his friend. Then his stomach bottomed out as he realized: Castiel had started this. _Stop thinking_ , he scolded his brain. _You said you'd help him score, ignoring the obvious problem you have with that. Quit complaining about being the mark_.  He brought one hand up to card through Cas's sweat-dampened hair, pulling their foreheads to touch. Castiel tensed briefly, and Dean felt a dull shot of panic: had he misread? But no, then Castiel was pressed closer against him, and Dean tried to remember whether or not spontaneous combustion was a real thing. 

The song ended, faded into another, and another, and they stayed, barely moving, pressed together, breathing each other's air. There were other people in the room, surely, bodies brushing theirs and filling the space with the scent of sweat and arousal, but Dean couldn't see anything but Castiel. Finally, Castiel pulled his head to the side, pressing his lips against Dean's ear again. 

"Can we go home?" he asked, his fingers squeezing lightly at Dean's waist. When had his fingers moved under Dean's shirt? That seemed like it should have been important.

"Yeah," Dean breathed, then nodded so Castiel would feel it, know that he agreed. The room was a hazy swirl of color as they made their way to the back door of the house. 

Castiel was warm, pressed against Dean's side as they walked. His angel wings tucked along Dean's back when Dean wrapped an arm around his shoulders to support him. Castiel rested his head against Dean's shoulder. 

"C'mon, man, gotta keep walking," Dean laughed, the flame of arousal burning hotter in his gut. Walking was going to get pretty awkward if Castiel didn't stop nuzzling him. 

"You smell good," Castiel said, the words muffled against Dean's shirt. Dean tucked his nose against Castiel's hair, just for a moment: Castiel smelled pretty good too. There was the lingering scent of _party_ : beer, and faint smoke, sweat and the tang of humanity, but underneath that was the smell so familiar that Dean had started thinking of it as home: it was _Cas_. 

_It shouldn't be this easy_ , some part of his brain reminded him. _You should be fighting this. You should remind him that he doesn't want this_. Except that it seemed like Castiel did, the way his lips found Dean's neck and brushed softly over the skin, the way he tucked his head back against Dean's shoulder, the way his arms were wound tightly around Dean's waist, the finger of one hand toying with the skin under the hem of Dean's shirt. 

He wasn't entirely sure how long it took them to make it back to their apartment, staggering as they both were, too wound up in each other to bother with things like _forward progress_ , but eventually he was fumbling a key into the lock and the door swung open in front of them. 

Castiel pressed him back against the door, making it slam as Dean collided with it, but it was a good door, a sturdy and reliable door, Dean thought. It held them up when he felt his knees turn to wet sand, felt the heat of Castiel's breath against his mouth, Castiel's hand in his hair and Castiel's lips on his. He wasn't sure which of them made a helpless little sound at the first contact, but it might as well have been him because it was exactly what he was feeling. The world spun dizzily and Castiel leaned into him, their hands and arms grappling for purchase as they clung to each other, mouths seeking as if the key to righting the world again was as simple as a kiss. He managed to lock fingers around Castiel's wings (he was still wearing those things, and that was probably hilarious somehow, if only he could care about anything but Castiel's mouth). 

"Cas," he managed, as Castiel used a knee to knock his legs apart, sliding his thigh between them and slipping a hand over Dean's ass to draw them together. He lost his train of thought for a moment - something important to say, but now he could _feel_ Castiel, hard against his thigh, and just the idea was enough to send him spiraling even higher than before. Castiel groaned into his mouth, and Dean's hand fisted in Castiel's hair, pulling their faces apart. 

"What?" Castiel asked, nearly snarling the words. Dean could see that familiar reckless gleam in his eye, the grin that told him Castiel was right where he wanted to be. 

"Against the door? Really?" he teased. "I mean, I know we said we needed to work on your game, man," and then Dean was laughing, stumbling as Castiel practically flung him into the apartment. Dean staggered towards his room, walking backwards and grinning at Castiel as his hands went to his belt. The buckle was something else, one of those big ones you could win at a rodeo, and he made a show of undoing it. And then Castiel was on him again, hands tangling with his and fighting him to undo his pants, and fortunately they seemed to have made it into Dean's room because the backs of his thighs collided with his mattress and he sat down hard, straining to keep contact with Castiel's mouth as he moved. 

Castiel knelt between his feet, fingers slipping under his waistband to pull his jeans down as Dean toed his boots off. He wanted to reach down, grab Castiel's shoulders and haul him up into his lap, maybe get him out of his costume finally, but then Castiel's breath was hot against the head of his cock and Dean wondered if he'd ever been this hard before in his life. 

He should be feeling the alcohol, still, he thought, but the world had only a pleasant fuzziness around the edges. Castiel was in sharp focus, the yellow glow of the streetlamp outside Dean's window casting highlights in his hair. Dean traced his fingertips over the arches of Castiel's wings, every feather discernible on his skin, as he felt Cas's lips press just beneath the head of his dick, a kiss that had him reeling all over again. Castiel was _good_ at this, and Dean wondered when he'd had the chance to learn, because Castiel's mouth was smooth and confident as he sucked and licked, teasing and worshiping. Dean's hands were tangled in Castiel's hair, desperate for something to keep him tethered to the planet, and Castiel brought his up to join them. He groaned when Dean groaned, tongue laving hungrily at the slit when Dean felt a blurt of pre come escape. 

"Cas," he gasped, weaving his fingers with Castiel's and trying to remember how to breathe. "Cas, c'mere, wanna," and he bit back a whine as Castiel released him with a wet pop. Blue eyes met his, hair a wild tangle and lips swollen pink and slick. Dean pulled Castiel up to him, needed to have his lips again. "C'mere," he repeated, letting go of Castiel's head when he was sure Castiel would keep kissing him, undoing Castiel's pants. They fell to the floor, unimpeded because Castiel had managed to lose his shoes at some point that evening. "Want you," he murmured, and Castiel hummed in agreement as Dean pulled him into his lap. 

He was still slick from Castiel's mouth, cooling enough that Castiel's cock was like a hot brand against his as he lined them up in his hand. He felt the press of Castiel's forehead against his, heard Castiel groan as he rolled his hips, fucking into Dean's fist. He slid his hand under Castiel's tee shirt, to feel the muscles of his back work as Castiel clung to his shoulders, the two of them rolling their hips in time with one another. More, more, just like that, perfect, Dean wanted to say, but the words were muted against Castiel's tongue in his mouth, by the white-blind feel of the two of them together, by the way Castiel shook apart when he came. Dean's world flew apart as Castiel pulsed against him, reformed around the two of them sharing air, hands still clinging desperately tight as they collapsed into the sheets.

\---

Dean shifted as he woke slightly, burying his nose more in his bedmate's mess of hair as he pulled him closer. Damn but this guy smelled awesome. Kind of like…oh. The gentle fog surrounding his brain lifted slightly. _Cas. Like Cas_. Because Castiel was in his bed, because…oh _shit_. _Son of a bitch_. _Shit_ , he thought redundantly, as Castiel shifted against him, warm and lax in his sleep. Because even as he cursed himself for (the incredibly awesome) things that had happened the previous night, his body already had other ideas. 

_You need to leave_ , he thought suddenly, panic rising. _Get out of bed before he wakes up. Give him a chance to escape - don't make him talk to you about this_. 

Dean didn't move.

_Just a few more seconds_. Castiel shifted again, fitting his body more securely against Dean's, his angel wings still attached to his back. _Shit_ , Dean thought, he was so very fucked. Because if he hadn't been irrevocably in love with Castiel before this moment, he was sunk now. He took a deep breath, nose pressed into Castiel's hair, arms wrapped around his friend. He wanted to live in this very instant forever. _Get out, Winchester_ , he told himself. _Get out now_. 

Cautiously, he started to disentangle himself, pressing one last kiss to Castiel's hair before he fled the bedroom for the shower. 

—-

Castiel couldn't remember the last time he had held onto sleep like this, fighting tooth and nail against the awareness that was trying to drag him back into the world. He was warm, felt so secure. But the warmth faded a bit, and he began to lose his battle. _Dean_ , he thought, because for some reason his whole brain was full of Dean. _Dean_. 

—-

The water sluiced burning-hot over his back, but it wasn't hot enough. Not enough to distract from the heat in his groin, the weight of his cock hanging blood-heavy between his legs. His hangover-fogged brain kept flashing back to the image of Castiel, tee shirt rumpled beneath fluffy white wings, the top of his bare ass peeking out where the sheet had slid down, curled in Dean's arms. In Dean's bed, where he had spent the night, because Dean was a piece of shit who fucked his roommate. 

Except that then, his brain started to play back the previous evening. Castiel pulling him closer as they danced, kissing his neck, pressing him against the door of they apartment, kneeling between his knees and oh, _wow_ , did a hand on himself feel incredible. 

—-

Dean, Dean's bed, Castiel realized. The previous evening replayed for him like a movie on the back of his eyelids. He'd really screwed it up this time. Done the thing he'd promised himself he wouldn't settle for - an hour's leave of his senses, and his resolve had failed him. Oh, but it had been worth it, some part of his mind urged, worth the feel of Dean's skin under his hands, the sounds he made, the memory of it all. It would have to be enough, now - and at least he had the memory. Castiel wound a hand down under the sheets, feeling his own length as he buried his face in Dean's pillow. A memory. Best to treasure it. 

—-

Dean stuffed his free hand in his mouth to stifle a gasp. Images of Castiel's face came unbidden to his mind - Castiel, hair rumpled from Dean's hands, damp lips parted in a gasp of pleasure, the intensity in Castiel's eyes as he came. Dean groaned, then, the sound barely muffled by his hand. He had fucked up, but somehow in this moment he wasn't quite regretting it.

—-

Castiel bit into the pillow as he tried not to whimper, hips rolling as he fucked into his fist. Dean's arms around him, Dean's lips on his skin, Dean's cock on his tongue. Dean _looking_ at him, enraptured, pupils blown. And now here he was, still, wrapped in Dean's sheets, the smell of Dean all around him, the heat of Dean's body still radiating from the mattress beneath him. 

—-

The memory of Castiel in his arms, pressed against him, the wild abandon and intensity with which Castiel had thrown himself into their encounter: it was better than anything Dean had ever dreamed. His mind shorted out on the image of blue eyes as he painted the shower wall with his come.

—-

Castiel felt a thrill in his gut, the illicit high of something he knew he shouldn't be doing, but it only served to push him closer to the edge. _Dean_ , he thought, closing his eyes and let his senses fill with the smell and memory of his best friend, _Dean_. A strangled moan escaped him as he came into his fist, followed quickly by a choking sob. 

—-

Dean rested his head against the cool tile of the shower wall, his breath coming in gasps that had less and less to do with his recent orgasm and more to do with the pain in his chest. He had _completely_ fucked up. 

—-

Cas stumbled back to his own room, suddenly in a hurry as the pipes creaked and he knew Dean had turned the shower off. Lucifer stared at him glumly from his cage in the corner, munching on a piece of dry food. 

Belatedly, Castiel realized he had forgotten the jeans he wore the previous night on the floor of Dean's room. "I never really liked those jeans anyways," he lied, and Lucifer chewed noncommittally. 

* * *

_November_

The world had shrugged on a new layer of strangeness this week. Dean tried to continue about his business as normal - attending (and skipping) class, cooking, bugging Castiel about whatever it was this time. But there was a distance between them, a hint of uncertainty. 

When Castiel came into his room with coffee in the mornings, he didn't stay. Which was why Dean had never let things take this turn before, never tested it, never should have even tried to test it. Because he could be the king of casual sex, when he wanted to. But nothing about Castiel was casual. He was all intensity and hard focused curiosity. 

So when Dean was bumming around the kitchen, cooking something, and Castiel wasn't underfoot, asking questions, showing him whatever new thing he had dreamed up this week, it was strange. It felt wrong. He missed Castiel, even though he could see him from where he was standing, curled on the couch, bare feet pressed into the cushion. Castiel wasn't avoiding him, not exactly. But Dean thought he knew his friend well enough that he was pretty sure he'd freaked the guy out. Because, seriously, it was one thing to know your roommate swung both ways: it was another to wake up (pants-less) in his bed. He didn't know how well Castiel remembered that night, given that they had both been drinking for a few hours, and both should have been pretty damn drunk by the point that _Castiel was pressed against him on the dance floor._ The memory came, visceral and unbidden, and Dean felt his pants tighten even as his face heated in embarrassment. But the night was burned into his mind with a crystal clarity that should have been impossible. Sometimes, he thought Castiel remembered enough, maybe remembered the same way Dean did, the way his cheeks would flush when Dean caught him staring. That was another thing: when Dean caught him staring, Castiel would look away. 

Dean stirred at the eggs in the pan on the stove as he thought. Something had to change, and soon, or Dean was going to lose his goddamned mind. And then he would do something really stupid, like talk to Castiel about it. Or get drunk and try to kiss him again. 

He should have stopped Castiel, should have known better, should have laughed off his friend's lack of game. Should have turned him down. 

Because whose fault was this really? His. It was his. Dean sighed, scooping food from the pan on to two plates. Even though Castiel was the one who suggested they give up and go home together, was the one who spent the whole walk home with his arms around Dean, was the one who kissed Dean the moment the door closed behind them. Dean shouldn't have let him. 

He missed Castiel. 

Castiel smiled, shifting on the couch as Dean passed him a plate. Dean tried to remember not to drop it on his lap: it was completely unfair that Castiel's smiles could still affect him like that. Even now. 

It was time to do something about it. 

"I'm headed out later," he mumbled through a mouthful of eggs. Castiel hummed, the sound neutral and agreeing. Belatedly, Dean realized he wanted Castiel to stop him. He had to focus hard to convince his throat to swallow his food. Castiel's fork scraped against his plate. 

—-

He shouldn't have even bothered. She was cute, hot even, and her name was Annie or Anna or something with an A (he thought, probably it was an A name). Flame red hair and big brown eyes, soft skin and she kissed with her whole body. She should have had Dean on his knees, ready to give her anything she wanted. Instead, she was being understanding, murmuring that _it's okay_ against his hair, and guiding his hand between her legs. Where he should have been dying to slide into her. Her gasps should have had his blood boiling through him, and even as he felt her grip on his shoulder grow tighter, felt her contract around his fingers, he felt little more than absent pleasure at making her happy. Her body was warm against his as they fell asleep together. 

In the morning, he woke to the rumble of Castiel's voice. In the living room. And she responded, as Dean sat up and realized her clothes were gone. He heard the door open and shut as he sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees and hands fisted in his hair, stared at his still-flaccid cock. There was a knock at his door, Castiel speaking before Dean managed to make a sound. 

"There's coffee," he said, leaving the door closed. Dean wondered why that made him want to cry. 

\---

Castiel felt as if he had placed his entire existence in a holding pattern, holding his breath, waiting to see what would happen. 

He tried to stop hoping but he couldn't quite manage it. His bed felt empty every night now, full of cold spaces he had never noticed before. He dreamed of Dean's arms around him more than anything else. 

Most mornings, they still had coffee. But not after the nights when Dean had someone over. Not anymore. He couldn't handle the idea of smelling them in Dean's room, like ghosts of them lingered on his skin, in his bed. 

One morning, he thought he caught a glimpse of his jeans tucked under Dean's pillow, but he couldn't be sure. It was probably best not to pry. He wished he had a way to make his own bed smell like Dean was sleeping in it, after all. 

He tried not to cry when Dean did laundry and his jeans turned back up in his dresser. He didn't succeed. 

* * *

_December_

Dean tried again. A few weeks, a few more failures. A few more mornings where he couldn't drag his eyes open, because he knew Castiel wouldn't be knocking on his door, not that morning. So he tried one more time, because it seemed like maybe that would be the tipping point to push him and Castiel back into the realm of _normal_. He didn't even get the chance to fail this time.

"You're hopeless," Jo said, the next morning, elbowing Dean in the ribs. He startled, nearly spilling coffee from where he had paused in drinking it, mug halfway to his lips. The familiar blue mug was hot in his hands, but Dean realized it had been several minutes since anything registered. He wondered how long Jo had watched him, standing in the doorway to his room, surreptitiously watching Castiel putter around the kitchen. 

"He's making bacon," Dean replied, trying to distract her. It hadn't worked last night - she had stayed over, shared his bed, even - but Jo had kenned to exactly what _wasn't_ happening between Dean and Castiel, and she had refused him outright. But she let him off the hook this time, pushing past him to go bug Castiel. 

—-

"Look," she had said, "you're completely tied up in knots over Cas right now. Don't argue with me, Dean Winchester, I know how you work. You are, you've had it bad for him for a year, at least, now, and I'm not going to sleep with you so you can pretend you're okay." She put her hands on her hips - there was no arguing with Jo when she put her hands on her hips.

"Are you dumping me?" Dean had asked, trying to riddle out what Jo was saying.

"That would require us to be dating in the first place, genius," she teased. "I saw you two at the halloween party."

"Oh," Dean said. He should have realized - he had known he knew people at that party, but that night…none of them had registered. He wasn't even sure he'd talked to anyone for the last hour or two they'd been there. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and she tucked a leg underneath herself as she joined him. 

"I mean, I should be offended that you didn't even say hi to me, or hit on me or something, because I looked smokin'," she grinned, "but then I saw you and Cas dancing, and the way you look at him…and I get it."

"I don't think I do," Dean had admitted. She had drawn him into her arms, tucking their bodies together beneath the sheets. He should be trying harder to score, he had thought, wasn't that what he was supposed to be doing? But then she had asked about Castiel, and he had never realized he had so much to say about one person. 

—-

He still wasn't sure she was right, although the cooling coffee in his mug begged to differ.

He wandered into the kitchen, cringing slightly as Jo went on and on about how she needed to get laid, how it had been weeks, but she winked at him and it dawned on him what she was doing. 

The bacon was perfect, the way Castiel always made it, all black around the edges and it burned his fingers when he snagged a strip out of the pile currently draining onto paper towels. He hissed at the pain. 

"Wait, assbutt," Castiel chastised him, but when Dean held the other half of the bacon strip up to Castiel's mouth, he opened to accept it. Castiel smiled at the sizzling pan in front of him as he chewed, and Dean's chest ached at the sight as he licked his fingers. He startled when Jo flicked his ear. 

"Hey!" He protested, as she snort-giggled at him. 

"Nut up, Winchester. I'm not the only one who hasn't been getting laid," she retorted. 

* * *

"Aw, Cas, man, what the hell!" Dean said, shutting the apartment door behind him. Castiel looked up from the flurry of white surrounding him, bits of paper strewn over the couch and rug and even one in his hair, scissors held open as he paused in making paper snowflakes. 

"You weren't supposed to be home yet," he said, slowly lowering the scissors in disappointment. 

"I…" Dean paused. "Should I leave and come back?" Castiel looked so disappointed. 

"No point, now," Castiel grumbled, snipping at his snowflake again. A particularly aggressive cut rendered the thing about half its original size. Dean dropped his keys on the table as he walked towards Castiel. 

"Well, then, can I help?" he asked. Castiel was upset, more upset than Dean would expect over a simple ruined surprise. 

"You said you miss the snow," Castiel answered. Dean had said so, last night, in a fit of homesickness for South Dakota. Not that Louisiana wasn't awesome in its own ways, but a week before Christmas he needed some snow to feel festive. A small part of Castiel was so terrified that Dean would leave that he had to do something, anything, to try to make Dean feel better about their place.

"So you're making me some," Dean grinned at Castiel. Castiel smiled ruefully, nodded, and looked down at his ruined snowflake. "You're the best, Cas," he said, clapping Castiel on the shoulder. He wanted to hug Castiel, to tell him he didn't need to go out of his way to cheer Dean up, to hold him until Castiel understood it wasn't really snowflakes that he wanted. But Castiel's smile grew genuine as Dean's hand lingered on his shoulder, and Dean figured the message had been conveyed. 

Later that night, when the two of them had settled in front of the television, one of Castiel's animal documentaries on the television, Castiel swung his feet up onto the couch and wriggled his toes against Dean's legs. Dean smiled, only half suppressing his grin, as he pulled Castiel's feet into his lap. He pressed the joint of his thumb along the length of the arch of Castiel's foot, felt warmth bleed through his body as Castiel half sighed and half moaned at the feeling. The world tilted back, things slotting into place as he rubbed Castiel's feet. 

The apartment was still covered in snowflakes a week later when the phone call came. 

—-

_They say he was probably drunk, Dean. He'd been doing so much better, but…Yeah, the Sheriff had me identify his body, Dean. I'm sure._

_And we don't have anyone else, they said you have to be my legal guardian or they'll stick me in the system. Dean, it's only for a year, then I'll be eighteen. You can still go back to school._

_Dean, I don't know what to do._

\---

It was almost stunning how easily his life fit into the trunk of his car. Sure, she had plenty of room, but the idea that everything that had been home to him, that had been his home with Castiel, could fit just like that: it hurt. He drove away, wondering what Castiel would make himself for dinner. What he would irrevocably burn to a pan when he got distracted by something more engaging. Whether Castiel would throw the pan out (no way would he be patient enough to scrub it). 

He tried to tell himself that it didn't matter, he would be back soon. But he already knew that it was a lie. 

Castiel had known it too, when he helped Dean carry the last few bags out to the car. Dean had felt it in the hug that Castiel resisted letting go of, the near-desperation in press of his palm against the back of Dean's head. In the heat of his body, flush with Dean's. 

"Cas," Dean had choked, realization crumbling like a pile of bricks. Castiel had wanted this, just as much as he had. He had just been all… _Cas_ about it. "I'm sorry," he whispered against Castiel's hair, his lips moving so no one could claim it had been a kiss. Castiel refused to let go of his gaze when their bodies finally separated, like it was a physical thing that could keep them bonded, like it was its own form of touching. 

"You'll call," he said, as his hand moved from cupping Dean's face, fingers brushing over Dean's lips. 

"Yeah," Dean had answered, and then he turned and climbed into the car. He hadn't looked back as he drove off; the road was already blurred enough by his tears. 

His chest burned hollowly. 

Three hundred miles later, he realized he had forgotten to pack his blue coffee mug.


	2. Interlude

Home was just as bleak as it had been in Dean's memory. A year since he had left school (left Castiel), started taking care of Sammy. The grease from his work at the garage was a near-permanent stain on his skin, the smell of oil part of his personality now. He worked nights at the bar just down the road, too, and fell into bed so exhausted that he never knew if he would be able to open his eyes the next morning or not. 

In some ways, it was good being home, with Sam again. Fumbling through their loss together. 

At first, he had talked to Castiel every day. But then the life insurance check was taking too long to come through, and Sam needed new shoes and money for college applications that his part time minimum wage job bagging groceries couldn't pay for, and Dean had to pick up work at the bar. And sometimes Castiel couldn't answer his phone at three am, and sometimes Dean was so tired that he forgot to call. They texted, bursts of letters reminding the other they were still existing, emailed some, but never enough. He figured Castiel had to move on with his life. It was probably better for him that Dean was gone. Dean's chest hurt every night when he fell into bed, and he wasn't sure what was going to kill him first. 

Sam graduated, got a scholarship, moved away. The year was up. Dean sold the house, found work fixing humvees in the desert, and tried to imagine that a war would be enough to keep his mind off the man an ocean away. It wasn't. 

* * *

It hurt, as the needle circled round and round over the point of his shoulder blade. Castiel forced himself to stay still. Each dash of each line connecting the dots was a point of pain on his skin. But pain was just chemistry: firing along his neurons, conveying information to his brain. Not unlike the tattoo: oxytocin, the bonding chemical. Rendered as a constellation, as permanent and unmoving a figure in Castiel's life as the night sky. Chemical, but no less real. No less indelible than the ink under his skin. He winced as the needles moved to another section, pretended the tears that sprang to his eyes were from the physical pain. There was love under his skin, whether he liked it or not. The ceramic of Dean's coffee mug was cool under his fingers; no one had asked him why he was holding it.

Reflection, later, revealed to him what he hadn't seen before - revealed what _all that_ had been about. It meant _I love you_ , but without the words: love in his actions, in his heart. Love in his veins, the drug that had kept him going more than caffeine ever could. 

Fingers and toes warmed by blankets, a  mug, soft morning light streaming through the windows. He lived there in his dreams, this safe harbor where he found love. He realized, later, that he never needed the tattoo to have love written all over his skin. The pain seemed to fade in time, or maybe the world just grew darker and he noticed it less - but he couldn't quite be sure. It might just have blended into the fabric of who he was. 

He sought other causes to serve, sought to do good even as he could not be good. He felt his world becoming dark and twisted, as each _good_ turned around and hurt him in its own way. 


	3. Part 2

_May 2014, Kansas City, Missouri_

There was a picture, one that floated around in Dean's belongings, showing up when he least expected it. A constant companion through the inanity of his life, one of the little things so familiar and so dear that it felt like an extension of himself, the paper soft and glossy beneath his fingertips. It was a photo of Castiel, probably from a year or two before they met. He wasn't even sure how it ended up in his things: it was just there, and when he left it had come with him. 

It was all black and white and shades of grey, and Castiel wasn't even looking at the camera. His hair was longer here, tied back and Dean wondered when Castiel decided to cut it. If he would have grown it out longer, without Dean ribbing him about needing a haircut every five minutes. His hair looked lighter, but Dean couldn't quite tell. Castiel was kneeling, in profile, looking at something: Dean couldn't quite tell what, because a crease ran through the photograph, obscuring whatever Castiel was touching. He wished the photo was in color, wished he could see Castiel's hands better, wished he had asked Castiel about it before…before. He wondered who took the picture, what they knew about Castiel that Dean had never managed to discover. If Castiel knew they were taking it. Because the person who took this: Castiel knew them. This was him at his most unguarded, the hungry curiosity that he was never able to contain: touching. This was Castiel at an elemental level. 

But as much as it felt like a tether to his friend, it left him with more questions than it could ever answer. How had Castiel come to have the photo, how Dean had come to have it, how it had ended up so careworn, and why he always seemed to find himself with it in his hands, staring. His chest hurt: why did he ever stop calling Castiel? It seemed like the most natural thing in the world, the way they fit together. And then it just slipped. Everything slipped: a year and his life was nothing like it had been. And Castiel wasn't part of it any longer. 

There were other objects that lingered too, other things he found himself holding, thinking, unsure of how long he had been staring. His dad's wedding band was the most frequent offender. Not just because he missed the old bastard, which he did, even if sometimes he was still so mad at him that it was hard to see straight. But more because he wondered what, in another life, he might have done with it. Sam had mom's ring, had given it to Jess and it made Dean smiled every time he saw it on her finger. But the one person he might have ever wanted to give this to, the person he had found himself talking to while endlessly fiddling with the ring before the desert, the treacherous hope that had buoyed him through the hot sand - those things were gone. And now he had a metal band that was always cold in his fingers, and no idea what to do with it. 

He put the photograph away, and his hands fumbled clumsily as he tried to button his shirt. He was going to be late for work.

* * *

Rain was still evaporating from the pavement when Dean turned down his street later that same evening, the Impala's tires splashing through a puddle. Afternoon thundershowers had caused a power outage at the office, so he had hit the gym early and headed home. It looked like those storms might have thrown a bigger wrench in someone else's plans, though: a moving van occupied the driveway across the street, workers hurriedly unloading its contents. He turned his baby slowly, letting her tires roll gently into his own driveway as he observed the hive of activity through his rear view mirror. His breath caught as a lithe figure climbed out of the truck, a mop of tousled black hair obscuring the momentary glance of his profile Dean had before he turned to walk into the house. Baby jerked, rocking as Dean slammed on his brakes inches before colliding with his garage door, fingers mashing at the opener button as he twisted in his seat to get a better look at the man - but the man was already inside the house. 

Besides, it couldn't be. The guy had a similar build, similar gait, similar coloring: that was it. Dean cursed himself for the fleeting moment of terrifying hope: ten million to one odds that his new neighbor was Castiel. Actually, he'd put the odds worse than that. Still, maybe he should head over later and...be neighborly. Or whatever that shit was. Beer. He should take the new guy some beer. 

Dean sniffed at himself and amended the plan: shower first, then neighborly beer. He realized that his garage door hadn't gone up: apparently the power was out here, too. Son of a bitch. He should have showered at the gym: the visceral reminder of Castiel had him half hard at the idea of spending a long, hot shower exploring one careworn fantasy after another. Somehow he didn't think a cold shower would have quite the same effect. 

* * *

 Castiel was in the den, unpacking his computer, when he heard a knock at the door. Had the movers forgotten something? The house was rapidly growing dim in the dwindling dusk, and he wanted to get a few things set up before he ran out of light to work by. Sighing, he wiped his palms on his jeans and made his way to the front door. 

Mentally, he was trying to tally the items piled in the front hall, figure out what the movers might have forgotten (because who else knew he was here?). Still counting boxes of books, he swung the front door open. 

\---

Dean picked at the hem of his tee shirt while he waited for his new neighbor to answer the door. He had forced himself to take his time getting ready, and by the time he was finished the moving truck was gone. Maybe his neighbor was too - he probably didn't have anything  to eat in the house and no power either. Dean should have brought him some food. Or maybe come by tomorrow after the guy had a chance to settle in. See if a wife and kid showed up, maybe get another look at the dude and confirm that, no shit Sherlock, this wasn't Castiel. But there was an itch under his skin that wouldn't relent, a need to know that he couldn't shake. So he stood there on the stoop, mentally counting to 100 as he waited for his neighbor to answer the door. He was at 88 when he saw a shadow moving behind the glass, 95 when he heard the metallic click of the door knob turning, 97 when his heart seemed to stop beating. 

\---

Castiel could feel that his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn't quite summon the coordination to close it. Not the movers, then. Bottle green eyes were locked on his, the expression on Dean's face one of unparalleled shock. He snapped from his reverie at the sound of breaking glass; glancing to the source, he saw a half-smashed six pack of beer on his stoop, a thin trickle of liquid winding its way between the pavers. He wondered how that had gotten there, and his eyes snapped back to Dean as he realized Dean must have been holding it. 

"Cas?" Dean said, eyes boring into his, voice light with disbelief. 

"Dean," Castiel answered, as his body suddenly remembered how to move. He heard his pulse pounding against his eardrums as he stepped over the threshold and pulled Dean into a hug. A half a heartbeat later he realized his impulse might be unwelcome, as Dean seemed to tense in his arms, remembered that he was still sweaty from moving, remembered the pain of the past nine years without this _assbutt_ in his life. He started to let go as he felt the brush of Dean's fingertips at his waist, would have let Dean push him away (and surely he could still call the movers and tell them to turn around, this was a mistake, he couldn't live here) but Dean was trailing his hands up Castiel's back, pulling him closer, hugging him back. Castiel felt himself gasp as his body remembered to breathe again. 

\---

"Cas," Dean murmured, the name so soft he wasn't sure Castiel could hear him, even as he turned his head to nose at the sweaty curls on Castiel's head. Castiel was here, Castiel was hugging him, Castiel was practically shaking in his arms and squeezing him so tightly he couldn't breathe very well. Dean relaxed into the embrace, letting one hand rub along the length of his friend's spine. _Missed you, Cas,_ he thought. _Missed you_. 

\---

Dimly, Castiel realized that he has passed the socially acceptable length of a _damn, missed you_ hug about thirty seconds ago, but he couldn't quite bring himself to let go yet. Not when he could feel Dean's breath against his hair, heartbeat against his chest, hands pressing against his skin. _Ten more seconds_ , he told himself, tilting his head to press his cheek against Dean's, the skin-to-skin contact making his resolve slip. _Five seconds_. At two seconds, he loosened his hold, let Dean pull back, still holding each other by the shoulders as their eyes met. 

"I can't believe it's you," Dean said, a grin lighting up his features. Even in the dusk light, he was more beautiful than Castiel's memory had ever managed to capture. It was the movement in his features, not just his lips but the way they curved into a smile, the crinkles around his eyes that gave them life and light, the color in his cheeks highlighting his freckles. 

"Me either," Castiel breathed, then shook himself a little when the words played back to him. "I, uh, I mean, I can't believe it's you, either," he clarified, and Dean's grin was dazzling. Castiel stared for a moment, feeling stupefied. He let his thumb rub over the rounded muscle of Dean's shoulder, felt the tension in the air between them crystallize. No, the hug had been far enough over the line. Time to give Dean a chance to breathe, a chance to run. He stepped back, breaking contact with Dean as he stepped over the threshold of his new home. Where Dean was apparently his neighbor. Castiel suddenly felt the weight of nearly a decade apart settle back between them, awkwardly mixing with the tension that hummed in the air. 

 "Um, sorry for hugging you. When I'm all sweaty and...well, sweaty," Cas apologized. 

"Nah," Dean answered shuffling one of his feet and glancing away. "It's, uh, it's fine." His cheeks darkened as his eyes met Castiel's again. "It's a good look on you," he fumbled, seeming to immediately regret his words. Castiel had forgotten how expressive Dean could be when he talked: it was mesmerizing, all of the things he was fighting not to say. 

"Thanks," Castiel answered, half laughing as he felt his own cheeks heat. 

"Uh, sorry for spilling beer all over your steps," Dean offered. 

"I was surprised too," Castiel said, answering the unspoken sentiment. 

"So you didn't know I lived here?" Dean asked, seeming surprised at the idea.

"What?" Castiel answered. His brow furrowed as he realized what Dean might be thinking. "You mean, have I been stalking you? Have I been searching for you?" He could hear the anger creeping into his tone, laced with pain. "No," he said firmly. "I had no idea you were even in this state." Dean nodded, seeming taken aback by the vehemence of Castiel's response. "Sorry," Castiel said. It had been a very long nine years. "Uh, do you want to come in?" He asked softly. Dean looked surprised at the offer. "I mean, if you're gonna dump beer all over my new stoop, you could at least help me clean it up," he deadpanned, teasing. 

Dean laughed, the sound genuine enough to bleed some of the tension from Castiel's limbs. "Yeah, sure," he replied. Castiel tried not to hold his breath as Dean brushed past him to step inside.

\---

Dean wasn't sure that _stunned_ quite managed to capture what was going on here. _Cas_. And he was in Castiel's house, despite making an ass of himself at least three times in under five minutes, and Castiel was apparently happy to see him? He felt like the world had tilted off its axis and was wobbling unsteadily as it raced towards the edge of a cliff. And, god fucking damn everything, he hadn't made it ten minutes without basically hitting on Castiel, either. _Good going, Winchester._ Except that he had meant it, sincerely, and there was so much more that he wanted to say too.  

Castiel's jeans were slung low on his hips, his fingers idly poking through a hole in the back pocket as he shuffled barefoot into the kitchen. 

"I knew there was a reason I hired a realtor," Castiel joked as he retrieved the roll of paper towels from his welcome basket. "Flowers and cleaning supplies! Everything the average bachelor needs to make his new house a home." He grinned at Dean. _Bachelor_. Not married, then, possibly not seeing anyone. He felt his heart soar-because how the _hell_ was Castiel still on the market? 

"Tell me about it," he replied, "it's like people think we can't take care of ourselves just because we're single men." And he wasn't wrong, Castiel's smile grew wider at that. 

"How the hell are you still on the market, Winchester?" Castiel teased, shaking his head as he stripped the plastic wrapping from the paper towels. 

"Hard work," Dean grinned. "And I could ask you the same." 

Castiel laughed, the sound a little bitter. "I have a track record with terrible wingmen," he replied. Dean felt his heart stutter, a visceral memory surging unbidden at his own last attempt at being Castiel's wing man. Castiel seemed to realize the implications a moment later. He shook his head and turned quickly back towards the foyer. "It's a long and tiresome story," he clarified - so, not Dean he was talking about then, at least not specifically - and Dean exhaled as he followed after Castiel, "maybe I'll bore you with it sometime." He tossed an almost shy smile over his shoulder, and Dean wished it didn't completely make his stomach do flip flops. Did he want to know? Could he stand not knowing, now that he had the opportunity? 

"Here," he insisted, taking the towels from Castiel's hands, "I'll get this." 

Gingerly, Castiel checked each of the bottles, dropping broken glass into the trash can while Dean wiped at the puddles of amber liquid on the steps. 

"Do you have a hose?" Dean asked, "I could, uh, spray it?" He motioned with his hand, miming washing the beer off the stoop. 

"Unfortunately, no," Castiel replied. "My last place was a studio without so much as a patch of dirt to water."

"Oh," Dean said, feeling more and more curious about where Castiel had been since they had parted. Somehow, in his mind, Castiel had become a fixed point: the college boy in their rundown apartment house, toes wormed between the cushions of the couch. The man standing in front of him was a stranger, even as Dean could feel the strength of their bond growing despite the intervening years. 

"Well, it looks like two survived," Castiel announced, the glass beer bottles grinding quietly as he set them on a dry paver stone. He picked up the soggy remainder of the six pack and dumped it in the trash can. Dean swiped at the puddle where it had sat before dumping his handful of paper towels in the trash as well. 

"Sorry about this," Dean apologized again. He realized how close he and Castiel were standing, their proximity forced by the size of the stoop. He bent to retrieve the surviving beers, and when he stood again Castiel had already moved into the house. 

"Could have been worse," Castiel replied. "At least we still have some to drink."  Dean closed the door behind himself. "Although I'm not certain I'll be able to find a bottle opener," Castiel called down the hallway. 

\---

He plunked the trash can down next to the refrigerator; he could figure out where it should live later on. He heard the click and hiss of a beer opening as he turned and saw Dean prying the caps off of the beer bottles with his ring. 

"When have I ever needed a bottle opener, Novak?" He teased. Castiel swallowed. Well, tonight was just full of surprises, he thought, as Dean pressed a cool bottle into his hand. Like the fact that Dean opening bottles with his ring still made his stomach twist. What on earth had gone wrong with him that it was such a turn on? But, again, this seemed to be just another thing that suffered from becoming unbearably hot due to mere proximity to Dean. He took a long swallow of beer, the cold liquid giving him a moment to collect himself. Dean was watching him when he opened his eyes again. 

"I'll get us some more beer," Dean said. 

"I'd offer you something to eat," Castiel said, "but I'm afraid I really don't have anything. Unless, uh, 75% dark chocolate strikes you as a well rounded meal," he laughed, proffering the candy bar that had been stuck in his realtor's floral arrangement. 

"Yeah, I know a place that delivers," Dean laughed. "Pizza and beer, if that sounds good?" Castiel nodded. "Don't think I don't remember your cooking skills, man," Dean teased, smiling. 

"It's a candy bar," Castiel shot back, affronted. "How could I screw that up?" But he was laughing now, and so was Dean. His body felt lighter and lighter the more time he spent with Dean. _This is dangerous_ , a little voice in the back of his head warned, as his shoulder blade itched under his tattoo. _Fuck off_ , he snarled at it. He took another pull on his beer. He couldn't remember the last time he had been this happy. 

\---

Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket, trying not to stare at the long line of Castiel's throat as he swallowed more beer. He tapped the screen to call Marco's. 

"Wait, you have this place on speed dial?" Castiel asked, his tone teasing. 

"I'm a professional bachelor," Dean answered, stabbing a finger at his own chest for emphasis. "And they'll deliver beer if you order food too. It's useful!" he insisted, over Castiel's laugh. "Hey, Donny, you guys have power?" he said, as the usual guy answered the phone, turning to move out into the foyer as this sent Castiel into a new wave of giggles. 

After he placed their order (assuming Castiel would still eat most of a meat lovers himself, assuming that was another thing that hadn't changed, assuming), he stepped back into the kitchen. 

"You know, I won't give you their number if you keep making fun of me," he grumbled. 

"I'm pretty sure I can find another way to get the pizza place's number," Castiel assured him, his fit of giggles finally abated. 

"Yeah, well..." Dean said, trying to come up with something to get Castiel back for laughing at him, "I'll tell them you smell bad and don't tip or something." Castiel smirked at him, then lifted his arm to check himself. 

"I actually do smell bad," Castiel acceded. Dean wanted to disagree, to pull Castiel close to him and bury his nose in Castiel's hair again. He took a pull on his beer instead. 

"You've got a good half hour until food shows up," Dean replied. Castiel nodded. 

"Yeah. I'll go shower. Uh, there are candles in one of these boxes," he said apologetically, and Dean nodded. 

"Yeah, I can try to hunt them down." 

Castiel took his beer with him as he headed towards the stairs. "Oh, and there's probably some whiskey somewhere, too," he tossed over his shoulder. That sounded promising. Dean set to searching. 

\---

The shower was completely cold, much to Castiel's chagrin. Even though he knew it would be massively inappropriate to, well, _clean the pipes_ with his friend (and unavoidable object of fantasy) just downstairs. At the same time, it seemed prudent to manage the situation that kept threatening to arise before it got out of...hand. _Shit_. The cold was actually wasn't that effective, he realized, now that he had let his mind wander. A long shower might give him away, depending how much of his habits Dean remembered. But there was no avoiding it at this point: fortunately, with the fresh memory of Dean's body pressed to his setting his blood pounding, he doubted this would take long at all. 

\---

Dean was almost disappointed to see that Castiel had re-dressed in street clothes when he wandered back downstairs. His mind had been helpfully flashing memories of Castiel in the kitchen of their old apartment, threadbare sweats barely clinging to his hips and Dean hadn't ever even had to wonder if Castiel was going commando under them: he could tell that he was. So the denim was both a relief and a let down. What else was new. At least he'd found candles and whiskey. Along with a delightful novelty candle he was really hoping Castiel wouldn't mind letting him light. 

\---

Castiel skidded to a halt as he stepped into the living room and saw the candle that Dean had place prominently in the center of his coffee table, lit in wavering light from the plain white emergency candles that dotted other surfaces. 

"Can I light it?" Dean grinned. As Castiel opened his mouth to reply, there was a knock on the door. "Saved by the bell," Dean said, setting his whiskey glass next to the ten inch, realistically detailed penis candle that Gabriel had bought Castiel for his last birthday. Castiel could feel his cheeks burning as Dean sauntered to the front door. Castiel flopped down on his couch and stared at the dick on his table. 

He was still staring at it when Dean set the pizza boxes and fresh six pack down beside it. 

"So, can I light it?" He asked, still grinning.

"Yeah, uh, go for it," Castiel answered. He felt like he should explain its presence, like Dean would get...ideas if he didn't. "My brother," he said, as Dean struck another match, "thinks he is hilarious." 

"Well, kudos to him for going full bore on the realism," Dean replied, as the wick caught and he shook out the match. "Cheers," he said, handing Castiel a glass of whiskey and picking up his own as he sank down into the couch next to his friend. 

\---

"You want another?" Dean asked, reaching for the last two beers. Castiel nodded, reaching out his hand while Dean popped the tops off the bottles. He probably should have stopped a few drinks ago, if he was honest, because at some point after the pizza had been polished off, his feet had found their way into Dean's lap. Like an old habit he had forgotten about. But Dean had rubbed at them, just like he used to, and Castiel could feel the tension between them settling into a sustainable rhythm even as the stroke of Dean's thumb over the top of his foot warmed his blood. Dean passed him a bottle, their eyes catching in the dimming candlelight. Castiel wrapped his hand around the beer, but Dean did not let go. 

"Missed you, Cas," he said softly, the words so quiet that Castiel might not have heard them but for the level of silence unique to a power outage. 

"I know," he replied, bringing his other hand up to the bottle, layering it lightly over Dean's before Dean moved, letting the moment slide back into all the others. Dean's hand was cool when he placed it back on Castiel's foot. Castiel wondered if he had ever been happier in his life than he was in this moment, if that was even a possibility. _Dean, Dean, Dean_ , his mind chanted, the sound in time with his heartbeats. 

"So what ever happened to Lucifer?" Dean asked, taking a sip of his beer. Castiel watched wax run down the side of the melting phallus on his coffee table, pooling in the plate Dean had set it on. 

"The guinea pig?" Castiel had nearly forgotten. 

"Yeah!" Dean insisted, his tone lazy as he laid his head back on the couch, letting it roll to the side to look at Castiel. 

"He passed on to the big guinea pig farm in the sky shortly before I graduated," Castiel answered. "He was a good guinea pig," he mused. 

"Talkative," Dean agreed, nodding. 

"Hmm," Cas said. He watched Dean drink his beer. He thought maybe he should be worried about something, about letting Dean back into his life after all the pain their last parting had caused, but now that he was _here_ , everything felt just so incredibly _right_. Sleep dragged at the back of his eyeballs: he was warm, and safe, and really pleasantly drunk. He wanted to say something, wanted Dean to know how happy he was that they were together again, even if the last few years had been shit. And even if they weren't _together_ together, strictly speaking. They could work on it. He should tell Dean: they could work on it.

"Could work on it," he slurred, the words not quite coming out how he had imagined in his head. 

"What?" Dean asked, smiling softly at him. "Cas, you're drunk."

"Am...okay, yep. Am too." Dean squeezed his foot and Castiel smiled at him. 

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered, glancing at his watch. "Cas, I gotta work in the morning." 

"Time 's it?" Castiel slurred, wiggling his toes at Dean. 

"One am, man," Dean answered. Castiel groaned as he pulled his feet from Dean's lap. Dean would leave now, he thought morosely. "Call me in the morning, Cas," Dean said as he ran his fingers through Castiel's hair. That was nice. It sent sparkly things down Castiel's spine, he thought, as he rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. He sighed when Dean removed his hand, saw the light behind his eyelids dim as Dean extinguished the guttering candles ( _ha_ , his brain thought foggily, _he blew out the dick. Blew the dick. Ha_ ). He heard the front door open and shut as the last warmth from Dean's touches faded, and sleep claimed him. 

\---

Dean made his way across the silent street to his own dark house. _Cas_ , his mind thrummed, _Cas is here, he's here and he's happy you're here at least he sure seemed like it_ and _Cas_. Shit. He was too drunk, he thought hazily, tossing his keys onto the table before staggering up to his bed. He felt his skin humming as he undressed, electric with the easy contact that had returned as naturally as breathing. _Cas_. 

* * *

  _June_

The street lit up with the humming buzz of Castiel's clunky, ancient Honda Civic. Dean grit his teeth at the sound of the engine - both grating and welcome: Castiel was home; Castiel drove a complete piece of shit car. It was somehow offensive, like Dean hadn't taught him to appreciate cars properly. Because, yeah, those things could run forever, but Castiel's was about ten years past its mercy expiration date.

He clicked off the television, rising to grab his bag by the front door and step outside to meet Castiel. 

"Over in a minute!" Castiel called from across the street, waving at Dean. Dean raised his hand in acknowledgement. The Civic clicked loudly as it cooled, somehow having survived another day. Dean wondered if he should put it out of its misery. Or at least convince Castiel to actually let him take a look at the damn thing, so it didn't sound quite so much like death on wheels all the time. Or smell kind of like burning. 

Really, the damn car was a hazard. Dean sighed as he dropped his bag at his feet and leaned back against the trunk of the Impala, feeling her solid weight supporting him. Now there was a real car, his baby. A _real_ car.

Castiel came jogging across the road carrying his suitcase. Dean dropped his eyes to study his cuticles when he felt the twist in his gut at the sight of Castiel in a grey t-shirt and jeans. It shouldn't look that good. It should be _illegal_ to look that good. 

—-

"Why the hell do you drive that thing?" Dean asked as Castiel approached.

"What, you're ragging on my car again?" Castiel said, breathing even despite his jog, the barb of his words softened by the smile around his eyes. 

"It's a fucking hazard, Cas," Dean insisted, the easy gruffness in his tone like a balm to Castiel. Everything felt so _easy_ with Dean, all the time. Castiel had missed it. 

"I don't know," Castiel said, looking over his shoulder at the scuffed black vehicle. "I mean, it runs." Dean barked a laugh. "It does!" Castiel insisted. "And the radio works." Dean raised his eyebrows at him. 

"It smells like burning."

"I…" Castiel tossed his hands helplessly. "I just haven't replaced it," he said. He could afford to, they both knew, could afford a lot more than the way he lived. He just didn't bother with the things that didn't strike him as necessary. And a lot of things simply didn't strike him as necessary. "I got it right after I got out of prison and I just haven't replaced it." He set his bag on the driveway next to Dean's. 

"What," Dean said flatly, making a spinning motion with one finger. "Rewind." Castiel looked up at him, expression mildly confused. "You -" Dean said, pointing a finger at Castiel's chest, nearly poking him as close as they were standing "- you went to prison? For _what_? Smuggling bunnies out of a chem lab?" 

"Uh," Castiel replied. "Actually, kind of something like that." Kind of almost exactly that, actually. Although it wasn't just bunnies. 

Dean huffed a breathless laugh, disbelieving. "You were in _jail_?" he said. "For how long?" 

"Just a few months," Castiel said, kind of wishing he had left that part out. It had sucked, but really, he kind of thought it had been worth it. 

"They go easy on bunny smugglers, do they?" Dean teased. Castiel frowned slightly at him, trying to suppress a slight smile at Dean's grin. It wasn't funny, still, to him. But Dean was reacting better to the news than most people would. Or had.

"Not that easy," Castiel sighed. It had been worth it - that didn't mean it had been an easy time for him. Formative, maybe, was a good word. He came out feeling like he had been so thoroughly picked apart that he could put himself back together however he chose - family-pieces, and belief-pieces, and hope-pieces, and choice-pieces. And this time, he chose right. (The Dean-pieces went right into the center of him, still, though.) 

Dean's face clouded a little at Castiel's words. Their shoulders brushed as Dean opened the trunk, lifting their bags and setting them inside. 

"You know you don't have to come with me," Dean said - for the third time since he had invited Castiel to come with him - as he closed the trunk of the Impala. Castiel sighed at him. 

"Do you really think you could make me if I didn't want to?" Castiel asked. "It has been too long since I've seen Sam. I'm doing this for your brother, not for you." Dean snorted at the sassy tone Castiel had taken.

"Fine. Fine," Dean replied. "But it's a long ride, and there's a strict no-complaining policy." He and Castiel slid into their respective seats, the car's heavy doors slamming as they closed them. 

"Will we be listening to cassette tapes for the next six hours?" Castiel deadpanned. 

"This shit's classic," Dean insisted, turning the key in the ignition as the Impala growled to life beneath them. ACDC blasted from the stereo, the sound quality made poor by Dean's years of playing the same mixed tapes over and over. Dean rolled through the stop sign at the end of their quiet street, heading for the freeway. 

"You know," Castiel said, "it'd be pretty easy to make this sound a lot better." Dean glanced at him quickly, before turning his eyes back to the road. Traffic was fairly quiet for a Friday night, and they slid smoothly through the city. 

"You're not changing the song," Dean insisted gruffly. 

"You're right," Castiel agreed as his hands moved quickly towards the stereo, "I'm not." Dean was predictable enough (well, in some respects) that Castiel had had no trouble loading up his MP3 player with Dean's music. He had even reconstructed a few of the mixed tapes as playlists from memory - Dean really hadn't changed his selections at all. (And Castiel had a good memory when it came to things about Dean.) Nimbly, he dropped the cassette at his feet as he pressed play on the iPod and slid the converter into the tape deck. 

"Hey!" Dean objected. "You're douching up my baby!"

"I didn't change the song," Castiel answered. Which was true enough - the same guitar chords played across the Impala's speakers, nearly uninterrupted. Except that the sound was now clear, nuances of the music that had been lost to time regained in their digital format. Dean's face relaxed in pleased surprise as the chorus picked up again, without the rustling sound of overplayed tape. "I told you it could sound better. You're doing her sound system a disservice with these relics," Castiel said, picking up the tape he has dropped and sliding it into the box at at his feet with the others. 

Dean's mouth worked for a moment as he tried to come up with something to say. "But it's douchey," he finally managed lamely. 

"It sounds better," Castiel said, glad that he had landed on such a bulletproof argument. 

Dean sighed as he turned them onto the freeway entry ramp. The song changed over, exactly as it would have on the mixed tape, and within minutes Dean was humming along with mullet rock's greatest hits. 

The road darkened, street lamps turning on as they flew down the freeway. They talked, conversation ebbing and flowing almost effortlessly.

"I still say he was safe," Dean argued. "That ump must've been blind, with the calls he was making." Castiel had taken to stopping by Dean's house in the evenings to watch baseball; Dean was teaching him the finer points of the game, although Castiel probably would have gone over to Dean's to watch paint dry if Dean invited him. He did enjoy the statistics that went into fully understanding players and teams, though, and his knowledge was expanding daily. It was always exciting to discover something new to learn about. 

"That ump has a higher percentage of questionable calls compared to most of the others we have seen," Castiel agreed. 

"See, that's what I'm saying," Dean said. "Dude's useless." 

Castiel smiled to himself. He was thoroughly enjoying this car ride with Dean. The iPod switched over to another song. Castiel had set its entire contents to shuffle an hour ago, and Dean hadn't complained about the occasional alternative song Cas had put on there with all the rock. It was his iPod, after all. 

> _But I could not recall_
> 
> _A more perfect fall_
> 
> _Cause when I looked up into your eyes_
> 
> _It didn't hurt at all._
> 
>  
> 
> _And I thought, be still my heart_
> 
> _This could be a brand new start, with you._
> 
> _And it will be clear_
> 
> _If I wake up and you're still here with me in the morning._

Castiel let his eyes drift shut as he listened - maybe this one was hitting a little too close to home for today. As the song ended, he realized that Dean had been quiet for the whole length of it. He opened his eyes and turned his head towards Dean as Van Halen carried them into the opening bars of _Why Can't This Be Love_. Castiel felt his heart in his throat as Dean's eyes met his - just for a moment. His hands ached to reach out, to take Dean's hand where it rested against his thigh, to wind their fingers together. 

He turned his head back towards the road, watched the blur of asphalt stretching before them. Maybe in another lifetime. 

Later, they talked again. 

"I told him you were coming," Dean said, grinning over at Castiel as they pulled off the dark freeway at Sam's exit. 

"Really?" Castiel asked. "What did he say?"

"Well," Dean hedged, "I didn't mention it was _you_ , exactly. But he sounded excited." 

"What did you tell him, exactly?" Castiel said, suspicion in his tone. Dean loved his brother, to be sure, but the two had a bit of a track record of less than perfect communication. 

"Just that it was someone he would be excited to see," Dean said. 

"I imagine he will be surprised, then," Castiel said. He hoped Sam would be happy too - but Sam had even less reason to forgive Castiel for disappearing from Dean's life than Dean did. Sam was a reasonable person, as Castiel remembered him, but it seemed entirely possible that Dean may have set them up for some awkwardness. 

* * *

Awkwardness wasn't quite the right word for it. Earth-shatteringly uncomfortable came closer. Dean flicked at one of the cardboard cupids hanging over the bed in Sam's guest bedroom. 

Sam had been delighted to see Castiel, but he couldn't seem to stop himself from giggling as he showed Dean and Castiel to the guest room. That they would be sharing. That Sam had decked out in an entire party store's worth of Valentine's Day-themed decorations. (Castiel could only assume he had ordered them online when Dean mentioned he was bringing someone, seeing as it was June and Sam was not really the type to keep a stockpile of such items.) Red and white candles flickered from every flat surface in the room, their warm glow doing nothing to soothe the twisting ache in Castiel's stomach. 

"Sorry," Dean said softly, when he caught a glance of Castiel's face. "I can sleep on the couch," he offered. 

"It's okay," Castiel insisted, even though he wished he could understand why it was so upsetting to him. Because in another life, he realized, Sam's joke might have gone off according to plan. In another life, where he and Dean were lovers, they might have crawled into bed together and laughed as the cupids dangled above them. 

"Frankly," Castiel said, clearing his throat and stuffing down his emotions, "I'm disappointed by the distinct absence of dick candles." Dean smirked at him, relief in his eyes. 

"Yeah, it's lacking a certain something," he agreed. "Weak, Sammy," he muttered, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

"We could always make balloon animals out of the condoms," Castiel proposed, gesturing towards the thoughtful "family pack" dominating one of the night stands. Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Although I admit my particular talents lie more in the latex glove arena," Castiel continued, deadpan. Dean snorted, suddenly, doubling over with laughter as Castiel picked up the box of condoms to examine it more closely. 

"No, no," Dean insisted once he had regained his breath enough to speak, "you gotta show me how to make condom animals. Sammy loves dogs. Let's make him a puppy." Dean snorted again, laughing as Castiel opened the box and dumped its contents onto the bedspread. 

"The lubrication may complicate things," Castiel said, his brow furrowing in concentration as he tore open a condom wrapper. 

* * *

"Uncle Cas!" cried Mary, squealing excitedly as she dashed across the yard towards Castiel. He caught her as she tripped barely a foot before reaching him. 

"Careful," he laughed, scooping her up. She giggled delightedly as he swung her up over his head, wrapping tiny arms around his neck when he lowered her. 

Dean grinned. Mary was a great kid, sharp for all of her two and a half years, and curious. He could see her mother Jess in her, undoubtedly, but Mary took after Sam so strongly that Dean constantly felt like he was struggling with déjà vu. Prior to their unsuccessful attempts at balloon animal-making the previous night, they had joined Sam, Jess and Mary in the backyard, where Castiel had helped Mary catch fireflies. She had become instantly enamored with him, dubbing him another uncle without prompting. 

"Fy lies?" she asked Castiel, now, one chubby hand fisting in his tee shirt. 

"Sorry," he answered, "no more fireflies until it gets dark." Mary nodded seriously, glancing around the yard. 

"Down," she demanded, and as soon as her feet touched the ground she was off again. 

"How do you ever keep up with her?" Dean asked his brother. Sam laughed. 

"We invest in good running shoes," he quipped. Jess grinned at him and shook her head. 

"Since she figured out walking, she just seemed to decide that running was even better. She keeps us going, that's for sure." Jess rested a hand lightly on Castiel's shoulder as he joined their little group, standing on the patio as they watched Mary babble away to the toy truck she was driving up and down her little plastic play slide. "She's really taken with you, Cas," Jess said. "She usually doesn't warm up to strangers quite this quickly." 

"She's a remarkable kid," Castiel said. 

"You don't have kids, do you, Cas?" Sam asked. Dean tried not to cringe noticeably. There were some things he wasn't sure he was ready to know yet. But Sam had been glancing at him sidelong ever since he showed up with Cas, and Dean could tell his brother was sniffing around for something. Well. As long as Sammy didn't get the idea in his head that he should play matchmaker (the guest room decoration aside), Dean supposed he would survive a little scrutiny. Possibly. His neck ached from the awkward angles of cramming himself onto the couch the previous night. 

"I have nieces and nephews," Castiel replied. "Quite a few, actually, although I don't get to see them very often."

"Oh, that's too bad," Sam replied. Jess nodded in agreement.

Castiel shrugged. "Those are the hazards of having a family so dysfunctional that it's best if we all live in different states."  Jess looked shocked, but Sam and Dean remembered all the trouble Castiel had always had with his family. Dean had been glad to hear that Castiel had managed some sort of separation from the worst aspects of it in the years that they had been apart. "I get along well with a few of them, though," Castiel smiled. Dean remembered the dick candle, suddenly, and tried to cover his snort of laughter with a cough. Sam was looking at him funnily again. _Whatever, Sammy. Me and your couch are gonna be good buddies by the time this weekend is over_. 

Mary came dashing back across the yard, toddling on still-unsteady legs, to present her newest uncle with a rock she had discovered. 

Dean watched as Castiel talked to her, played along with her games, slid right into his family as if he belonged there. 

Well, maybe he had all along. 

* * *

_August_

"Cas?" Dean called out, closing the garage for behind him. He thought he had seen the television on as he pulled into his driveway. 

"Hurry up, you're missing it!" Castiel called from the living room. Dean grumbled to himself - he hadn't wanted to be late, obviously. He stepped into the kitchen for a beer, only to be interrupted by Castiel's shout. 

"I got you a beer out here! Hurry it up, Winchester! It already ate two people!"

Castiel's obsession with the Syfy monster of the week movies was getting a little out of hand. One baseball game rainout, and suddenly their Tuesdays were full of ghosts and vampires and werewolves and more obscure creatures. Sometimes various giant carnivorous animals or insects. 

"What is it this week?" Dean asked, sliding down onto the couch next to Castiel. Their thighs touched as he let his legs splay open, relaxing. He spotted his beer on the table and groaned as he leaned himself forward to grab it, shoulder brushing Castiel's where he was leaned forward intently, elbows on his knees. 

"A giant squid."

"So stay out of the ocean," Dean supplied logically. He could see the eye roll in the shift of the set of Castiel's shoulders. 

"It can fly," Castiel stated exasperatedly. 

"'Course it can," Dean replied, taking a long swallow of his beer. 

"It is a little far fetched," Castiel admitted. 

"Ah, well, if the scientist thinks it's implausible then I'm definitely in," Dean teased, nudging his knee against Castiel's. 

"Shh," Castiel replied. 

The quality of the movie was greatly aided by the beer and the dinner Castiel has brought over. It was take out, since he still didn't really cook, but Dean didn't mind. He cooked for the two of them often enough; most weeknights found them spending at least an hour or two at one of their houses (although Thursdays were at Dean's, since his television was apparently an entire three inches bigger than Castiel's, and cheap special effects are best viewed on as large a screen as possible). And weekends, when they weren't traveling to visit Sam and Jess or working, the line between whose home was whose blurred further. Dean almost wanted to ask Castiel to just move in, to simplify things, but he was pretty sure that would cause more confusion than it was worth. 

Because even though he and Castiel had settled into an easy relationship, one where casual touches and emotional intimacy were the norm, Castiel never gave any sign that he wanted more. He let Dean hug him, let him hold on too long on the nights they had both been drinking, but that was all. 

It could be enough, Dean told himself. His life was unbelievably awesome. He had a great job, running his own business, he had his long-lost best buddy for a neighbor. So what if the guy also happened to be the unrequited love of his life? It just wasn't worth sacrificing the rest of the relationship for. 

* * *

_October_

It was time to do something about this, Dean thought futilely to himself. Time to nut up. Because there was no way he was going to survive this, not another time. He was already aching to get blitzed just so he wouldn't have to think about it any more. 

So he wouldn't have to think about Castiel on a date. With some woman from work, for a company function, and it soothed him a little that Castiel was clearly in no way looking forward to this, but he was going on a date with someone who wasn't Dean and it burned. 

Dean hadn't even realized how accustomed he had become to thinking of the two of them as, well, a unit of sorts, a pair - together, even if they weren't really. The ease of coming home to find Castiel on his couch as often as not, of always having someone to hang out with. The ease of the fact that neither of them had been on a date since Castiel had moved in. 

So they weren't dating, but in Dean's mind he has settled into the relationship almost as if they were. 

—-

Castiel sighed at his reflection as he picked at his tie. The full length mirror on Dean's closet door reflected back a stunning man in a well tailored black suit, but Castiel's expression was sullen. It was wrong, it was all wrong, it wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to work up to courage to ask Dean, like it was just another thing they did, like it wasn't any sort of a big deal. Just a date to help him get through an event at the university. He felt like his tie was strangling him. He hooked his index finger between it and his throat, tugging.

"Here," Dean said, his hands suddenly over Castiel's, face close enough that Castiel could feel the heat of his breath. Castiel felt his heart clawing its way into his throat, heart hammering at Dean's sudden nearness. Not like they weren't in each other's space all of the time. _But_. But now Dean was undressing him, pulling the tie out of his collar, and Castiel suddenly realized that he had forgotten to breathe since Dean had started touching him. 

"What," he managed, breathing rapid, bird-quick now that he had remembered it. 

Dean smiled at him a little - a small, soft thing, no hint of the cocky smirk Castiel had half expected, and draped another tie around his neck. 

"Try this one," Dean said, voice low and rough with their closeness. "It's one of mine," he clarified, and Castiel felt goosebumps prickle at his skin. It didn't mean, couldn't mean what he wanted. Dean's tie, Dean's clothing on him, marking him as claimed even as he went out with someone else. He stood stock still, transfixed by counting the freckles on Dean's cheekbone as Dean's fingers worked at his neck. He tried not to sigh in regret when Dean finally snugged up the knot (a full Windsor, if he recalled from Dean's long-ago lessons), and stepped back so Castiel could see himself in the mirror. 

"You don't have to wear it," Dean finally said, when Castiel was silent for a few seconds. 

"No," Castiel responded, the word coming out more emphatically than he had intended. He cleared his throat, tried again, scared to meet Dean's eyes. This felt like too much, too significant, this thing that was passing between them here. "No, I like it," Castiel said. It couldn't mean what he thought. He met Dean's eyes, and his breath caught in his throat. Because Dean was looking at him like...like. "I want to wear it," he said softly, wondering if Dean understood his full meaning. Dean's expression was heart-shatteringly hopeful for an instant, before he schooled his features into an expression of focus, stepping closer to Castiel and fussing with the tie again. 

"It looks good on you," Dean mumbled. "I like it on you."

Castiel let his fingers drift over the silky fabric, stroking the length of it down his chest. He glanced at his watch: time to go, or he was going to be late. He met Dean's eyes again, not sure quite what he wanted Dean to say, knew that he wanted Dean to stop him, ask him to stay. 

"Knock 'em dead, Cas," Dean said, a little of that cocksure attitude creeping back into his grin. Castiel somehow managed to leave the room without hugging Dean. Later, he didn't really remember how he made it across the street to his car. 

* * *

Tuesday. It was Tuesday, and Dean hadn't seen Castiel since Castiel slumped out if his bedroom on Saturday night, the words _stay with me_ frozen in Dean's throat. He set the recycling out at the curb, the pavement beneath his bare feet still damp from the morning air. His feet were cold, going numb as the bottles in the recycling bin rattled against each other, a reminder of his activities since Saturday. The bin was fuller than usual. Castiel's house was dark, quiet. Not surprising, given the hour. He set the bin down in the damp grass, bottles clanking loudly. Two breaths. His feet hurt from the cold pavement. Castiel's house was still dark. Dean turned to go back inside. 

Day three of Dean avoiding Castiel. Because that was the truth of it: he was avoiding Castiel. He couldn't really deal with Saturday, still. It made him feel like a brat, a jealous child. A jealous lover, even. Because he wanted Castiel to be happy, above all, whatever form that took. And Dean wasn't naive enough to think that their relationship could really continue the way it was - eventually, Castiel would meet someone, would want to do that whole thing that people did when they settled down. And he should get to, he should get to have that happiness, and so Dean was determined to give him the space he needed to find it.

Even if it was kind of killing Dean. 

He wasn't good at this, at the kind of honesty that a relationship needed. Wasn't good at being honest with himself, really. He trudged back inside, feet unfeeling. They ached as he made himself coffee, prepared for the day. His head still hurt. 

On Saturday night he had stayed up late. Not that he wanted to: he should have gone out, should have found himself a distraction. He was sure that he wasn't _that_ out of practice, was sure he could still pull if he wanted to. Years of practice didn't fade in a few months. 

Instead, he had planted himself on the couch, looking out the front window towards Castiel's house, and gotten royally drunk. He hadn't even bothered to turn on the TV for an excuse. By the time Castiel had gotten home, Dean wasn't sure if he had passed out and dreamed Castiel's car pulling into the driveway, dreamed that Cas had turned to look at Dean's house for a few quiet moments, hand on Dean's tie, before he turned and went into his own dark house. But Castiel's car had been right where Dean remembered when he woke the next morning. 

Castiel still had his tie, he thought idly, buttoning his shirt. Maybe he would stop by after work. Castiel probably wasn't mad at him, although Dean wasn't sure why he hadn't found Castiel in his living room when he got home the previous evening. Probably had something to so with the fact that he had worked late, hit the gym, hit a bar, and generally avoided coming home until almost midnight. Probably had something to do with that. 

He sighed, picking at his hair in the mirror. Time to nut up. Time to be a _friend_. 

\---

Castiel wasn't home when Dean got back that night. Dean felt weirdly acute disappointment, a sensation like his bones were deflating. He let himself in to Castiel's house anyways, the cool dark of the home that smelled so much like its owner that it made Dean's heart ache, the quiet rush of a ceiling fan his only companion. 

Maybe he could just get his tie back and leave. Save Castiel from having to see him, having to deal with him. Maybe Castiel could just show up on his couch tomorrow for their Thursday night routine, and they could pretend Saturday had never happened. So they could still be friends. He headed up the steps, moving quietly despite his shoes, quiet despite the fact that no one was here to hear him, despite the fact that, in theory at least, Castiel had given him permission to be here. Had given him a key. Despite the fact that, a week ago, he wouldn't have thought twice about grabbing a beer from the fridge and cooking something for the two of them while he waited for Castiel to come home. 

The door to Castiel's bedroom was open, the weak rays of evening sun spilling into the hallway. He could just find the tie, then maybe make them some dinner. Castiel would like that, right? Avoid the awkwardness. But the tie wasn't sitting out on Castiel's dresser, wasn't with the rest of the suit (which had been carelessly tossed over an armchair by the window, and _damnit Cas_ those wrinkles would be a bitch to get out). It wasn't on the tie rack in the closet. 

Maybe inside the dresser then. Dean was starting to feel a little creepy, but no way was he giving up now. Castiel was running out of places to have hidden it - Dean could find it. 

The top drawer of the dresser was half full of books, arranged so their spines could be easily read. The other half was a hodgepodge of socks and what Dean always thought of as the detritus of living: the little odds and ends, the mementos that seemed to accumulate simply through the process of being. There was his tie: carefully folded and laid to one side. He reached in, finger sliding over the fabric (a tug in his belly as he remembered the stroke of Castiel's fingers over the fabric) as he picked it up. 

Done. Mission accomplished. 

He tucked the tie into his pocket, moving to close the drawer, when a small box caught his eye. It had been hidden, before, by the tie. It was sitting in a blue coffee mug, a strange bolt of familiarity striking Dean, although he couldn't really place it. His. He thought the mug had been his. And Castiel - had kept it? But the box. 

Probably nothing. Probably cuff links or something someone had given him, something he couldn't quite bring himself to throw away. 90% chance it was nothing. 98% chance he was a piece of shit for snooping in his friend's private stuff. 100% chance he had to know what's inside. Dean picked up the box carefully, fingers guiding it gently from the coffee mug. (His mug. _Why?_ ) The navy leather covering the box was smooth against his fingertips. The hinges resisted, a little, as he pried it open. 

The sun glinted off the diamonds inside. Three diamonds set into a band, old fashioned, probably platinum. An engagement ring. A women's engagement ring. Castiel had an engagement ring in his sock drawer. After he went on a date for the first time since Dean had seen him, after he hadn't seen Castiel in three days. What was Castiel doing with an engagement ring. Dully, he realized he was panicking: heart hammering, breath coming in gasps. Who was this for? Was Castiel in love? 

He heard the front door open. Fingers fumbling, he snapped the box shut, dropping it (too carelessly) into the mug, sliding the drawer shut. 

"Hey, Cas," he called, announcing his presence as he hurried into the hall, towards the stairs. He froze at the top, eyes meeting Castiel's. He looked like he had been caught out, and he knew it. _Run, run run get out of here he's got a ring for some girl get out of here you idiot._ Dean realized his breathing was still fast, forced himself to move, to descend the stairs. 

"Just came by to see if I could get my tie back," he explained breathlessly, brushing past a confused Castiel, almost out the still- open door. Castiel's hand moved fast, a viper strike, landing on Dean's upper arm, gripping him gently. 

"Where are you going?" Castiel asked, seeming to struggle to land on the right words. 

"Uh, I gotta," Dean fumbled. No excuse, he just had to run. "I'll see you, yeah?" He finally managed. 

Castiel nodded, a hurt expression on his face. Dean swallowed hard, tried not to cringe as Castiel's hand slipped from his shoulder as he fled - _made it -_ out the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song lyrics in this chapter are excerpted from _Be Still My Heart_ by The Postal Service.


	4. Part 3

Dean stumbled through the front door of his house, feet as numb as they had been from the cold that morning. (Could it really have been just that morning? It felt like a lifetime ago.) His world was a pane of glass, shattered in place by the reminder that Castiel would never be his, not the way he wanted, now tumbling in sharp shards to the floor as he understood that idea fully. 

Friendship would never have been enough. 

Because he _should have seen this coming_ , he berated himself, he should have known better. It had burned him badly enough the first time around, falling in love (because yes, he was that fucking stupid, and it was fucking _love_ , no use avoiding the word now). In love with _Cas_. Who was in love - or, at least, had been - with someone else. Someone who might want a woman's engagement ring. Someone who might accept one from Castiel. 

He wondered what else Castiel had never told him. 

His gut ached. He opened the cabinet in his kitchen, pretty sure he had shut the front door, he would check it in a minute, and drew out a bottle of whiskey. Good thing all of his delaying the previous night had included a grocery run. He wondered if after this week he would need a new liver. 

He wondered if he should call in sick for work tomorrow now. 

_Fuck everything_ , he thought, uncapping the bottle. _Fuck all of it, just…fuck_. The liquor only heightened the burn in his stomach, swirling dizzily to his head (empty stomach, rookie mistake). Blindly, he found his way to the couch, closing the front door when he saw it standing wide open. It slammed, a satisfying boom in the house. 

—-

An hour later, he discovered that he had retrieved a second bottle at some point. 

—-

Later (he didn't know how much later), the front door opened. He cursed, wondered if he didn't get it shut right. Through the haze of alcohol clouding his mind, he heard footsteps: every muscle in his body lit up with sickening adrenaline. _Danger_. 

Castiel stepped into the living room. 

Dean's stomach twisted, he thought he might vomit. _Why is he here_. 

"I just wanted to see if you were okay," Castiel said quietly, suddenly about five steps closer to Dean than he had been before Dean blinked. _Blink_. Castiel was standing next to him now, reaching out a hand for the half-empty bottle in Dean's lap. Dean clutched it closer. 

" 'm fine," Dean slurred, the words coming out a jumble. "I'm fine," he insisted, the words enunciated with the intensity of the truly focused drunk, looking Castiel in the eyes. It made his heart hurt. _Cas loves somebody else. Not me_. He took another drink. "Why're y' here?" he managed, not looking at Castiel again. Looking at Castiel hurt. 

"You're not fine," Castiel said, the words flat, like someone had run them over with a steam roller. Like Dean could poke them with his finger and leave a dent. He snorted a little at that, poking a finger towards Castiel. Then he remembered again, _not in love with me_ , and he frowned. 

"I'll b'fine," Dean insisted. He wasn't sure how he'd managed to get quite this drunk. He didn't think he'd been this drunk in a very long time. Tolerance, that was the word they said for this thing he had where he didn't get this drunk. Except that right now, he was. This drunk. Very. Drunk. 

Castiel was still standing next to him, looking at him with that little furrow between his eyes. It was cute. Infuriatingly cute. 

Castiel's face had smoothed out. "Am I?" he said. Dean wondered if he had said the cute thing out loud. "You did," Castiel confirmed, smiling at him a little now. Castiel sighed as he sat down on the couch next to Dean. Dean frowned at him. "No, I won't leave," Castiel said, and Dean wasn't sure if Castiel was answering something he'd accidentally said out loud or just guessing what Dean wanted to say. "You're very drunk. I don't think I should leave you alone right now." 

"Pffft," Dean managed, which wasn't actually words, but kind of got the point across. He thought, probably, at least. The bottle he had been holding was in Castiel's hands when he re-opened his eyes. "Cas," he sighed, letting his head loll to the side where it rested on the back of the couch. _Everything hurts_ , he thought. 

"What hurts, Dean?" Castiel asked. "What made you decide to do this to yourself?" 

_Everything_. Dean closed his eyes again. When he re-opened them, Castiel was holding a glass of water, straw pinched between his fingertips. 

"Drink," Castiel said. The water was sweet, even as his numb lips fumbled with the straw, making contact with Castiel's fingers. Dean felt stupidly grateful, wondered why the hell Castiel would take care of him like this. Why, when there was someone else more important. 

He was selfish. So, damnit, he was going to be good and selfish tonight. 

"C'mere, Cas," Dean managed, his throat feeling raw. He swiped a hand at his eyes: tender, the skin warm like he had been crying. When had he been crying? Castiel settled on the couch next to him, let Dean sling an arm around his shoulders and rest his head against Castiel's. 

"You are very drunk," Castiel observed. 

"Yeah, thanks, Cap'n Obvious," Dean said. He snorted a laugh at his own joke. "You like me cause I'm funny, right Cas?" Dean asked, suddenly feeling a deep and urgent need for validation from his friend. 

"I like you for a lot of reasons, Dean," Castiel answered, shifting Dean around so that he was tucked against Castiel's chest, Castiel supported by the corner of the arm and back of the couch, Dean laid along his side with his head on Castiel's chest. Dean felt Castiel comb his fingers through his hair, and was too drunk to stop the moan it drew from him. He felt Castiel tense a little, could practically hear the gears turning in his head. Castiel would probably leave now, he thought morosely. He felt Castiel shake his head minutely, his thumb brushing over Dean's cheekbone before stroking down his arm and coming to rest on Dean's forearm. 

"You're drunk," Castiel murmured, as if he were talking to himself. "You're very drunk." Dean turned his head, snuggling more fully against his friend. Well, if Castiel wasn't going to leave, he was going to enjoy this. Because Castiel smelled awesome. And not in any defined way, just in a way that was sunk deep into Dean's bones, sense memories of home and happy welling up at the scent of _Cas_. He felt Castiel's thumb stroking absently on his forearm. 

"I need you, Cas," Dean said, the words partially muffled against Castiel's body. "Need you," he said again, hoping Castiel could understand. 

"I need you too," he felt Castiel murmur, the words soft where Castiel had his lips in Dean's hair. 

"No," Dean said softly, because there was no way he was ever going to be able to do this sober, and maybe the universe would have mercy on him and he wouldn't even have to remember this in the morning, so it was now or never. He moved his hand from where it was draped across Castiel's hips, Castiel's grip on his forearm shifting as Dean moved. His hand slid clumsily up Castiel's chest, coming to rest on the left side. His fingers found skin where the buttons of Castiel's shirt were undone, momentarily distracting him. Drink-numbed fingers slid over the skin and he felt Castiel shiver against him. _Don't leave_ , he thought urgently, splaying his hand over Castiel's heart. _I have to tell you_. "I need you," he said again. 

"Dean," Castiel replied, eyes going soft and sad. Dean wished his limbs felt more coordinated, wished he hadn't had quite so much to drink, because he wasn't communicating clearly enough and this was _so_ important. It was the most important thing in his life - Castiel was the most vital thing. And he wasn't sure that Castiel knew what he was saying. He tried to regroup, preparing to try again. And then he felt Castiel's lips on his forehead, Castiel's hand cupping his face, Castiel pressing his own forehead against Dean's hair. "Dean," he said again, like an apology and forgiveness at the same time. Dean's eyes felt heavy, the warmth of Castiel against him suddenly making his sleepier than he could bear. 

"Come to bed," he said, fisting his hand in Castiel's shirt. _Stay_ , he thought. _Stay while I can still ask this from you_. 

"You're drunk," Castiel said. 

Dean sighed. "No shit, man. Come with me," he said again, raising his eyes to meet Castiel's. "Promise your, uh, your virtue's safe." He could feel the flirt in his grin even as he said the words. Defending, deflecting. He wished he could just say what he wanted. _Wanted_ , like before. "Way too much to drink," he admitted. 

A smile played across Castiel's features, curiosity. Dean could almost hear his thoughts: and if Dean hadn't had too much tonight? Would Castiel's virtue be safe then?  A wave of memory: the taste and heat of _Cas_ , the two of them completely twisted up in each other, falling asleep in each others arms, blissed out and still covered in come. He wanted Castiel, still. Even though he knew he couldn't, shouldn't. No, Dean thought, his face heating, Castiel's _virtue_ really, really wouldn't be safe. He dropped his eyes when he saw Castiel's smile shift, not sure he wanted to read what Castiel thought of that. _Too much to drink_. The world spun a little, his stomach twisting unhappily. 

"Ugh," Dean groaned, struggling with the shifting gravity in the room as Castiel helped heave him to his feet. 

In all, he was pretty proud of himself for making it to the toilet before he started puking. 

—-

Mercifully, his stomach quieted once it was empty. He leaned heavily against the door frame as he brushed his teeth, scrubbing the taste of it from his mouth while Castiel dug around on his dresser for pajamas. He felt happy, deeply and truly content at the sight of Castiel in his room, casually going through his things. Like maybe Castiel belonged here. 

He turned, bracing a hand on the counter to keep himself steady as he spit and rinsed the toothpaste from his mouth. His knees seemed unreliable. Castiel was standing in the doorway when he finished, still leaning heavily on the counter as he accepted the tee shirt and sleep pants Castiel was offering to him. 

"I hope it's okay if I borrow these," Castiel said, almost sheepish as he gestured to the tee and pants in his own hands. Because Castiel could just run across the street and grab his own stuff, Dean realized. But the idea of Castiel leaving, even only for a minute, had his heart pounding anxiously. Dean liked the idea of Castiel in his clothes, anyways. He nodded, grateful that the movement only made the room swing around a little. 

"Are you sure you can handle this?" Castiel asked concernedly, as Dean swayed a little while the room settled back into place. "Getting dressed, I mean," he clarified quietly. 

"I can handle it," Dean assured him, waving the hand that wasn't bracing his weight against the bathroom counter. Castiel squinted at him, unconvinced. "I got it, Cas!" Dean insisted, moving to close the door. He missed his estimate, however, and suddenly found himself on his knees on the ground. Castiel was standing not a foot from him, crotch now at eye level, and his whiskey-soaked dick decided that maybe it would take an interest in the proceedings after all, or at least make a valiant attempt. 

"Hey," he heard himself saying, half surprised and half lewd (and unfortunately still not even halfway to half hard), eyes fixed on Castiel's jeans-clad crotch. He was drunk enough not to cringe in embarrassment at his own words - but just barely. He heard Castiel sigh softly, felt strong hands slip under his arms, hauling him back upright. 

"You definitely don't 'got this'," Castiel chastised, helping Dean stagger over to sit on the edge of the bed. Dean let himself lean into Castiel, enjoy the feeling of his arms. "Pants off," Castiel ordered, turning to retrieve Dean's pajamas from the bathroom floor. Dean struggled dizzily with his jeans while Castiel had his back turned, the room tilting precariously around him. He got his pants down to his knees before they got stuck over his boots (why was he still wearing his shoes? Oh, right, because he had run straight for the liquor cabinet when he got home and never bothered taking them off.) Shit. Now his pants were stuck. He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling and feeling exhausted. 

He heard Castiel clear his throat, the noise maybe a choked back sound of surprise. "Need help?" Castiel asked. 

"I'm stuck," Dean said to the ceiling. He felt Castiel's hands on his ankle, lifting one foot and going to work on his laces. This was really not how the whole "getting undressed in my bedroom with Cas" scenario usually played out in his mind. Why had he gotten so drunk? The memory slammed into him like a pile of bricks, his chest suddenly aching horribly. _Right_. Castiel probably didn't even want to be here. He hauled himself upright, nearly toppling onto Castiel where Castiel was kneeling at his feet. "I'll get it," he insisted, trying to push Castiel's hands out of the way. Castiel placed a palm firmly in the center of Dean's chest and pushed, not ungently. Dean overbalanced, fell back to lay on the bed again.

"Hold still," Castiel growled. 

"You don't have to be here, Cas," Dean said quietly. His chest hurt, and his head hurt, and he kind of just wanted to be alone to wallow some more. But alone meant no Castiel. He didn't really want to be alone. 

"Why would I not want to take care of my extremely drunk and rather handsy best friend?" Castiel asked.

"Handsy?" Dean asked, then laughed. He wasn't being handsy. Except for the part where he had kind of felt Castiel up earlier when they were on the couch. Kinda cuddling. And the part where he had seriously considered trying to convince Castiel to let him blow him. Okay. Handsy was probably accurate. "Sorry," he said. _Best friend_. Why couldn't that be enough? The hollow feeling in his chest was suffocating him. 

"Was I complaining?" Castiel replied, then sighed. "I'm not leaving you alone right now, regardless." He was silent as he slid Dean's jeans off of his legs, and Dean felt almost grateful that he couldn't seem to get hard right now. "Sit up," Castiel said, holding out his hand to Dean as he stood. The room spun and swam and Dean ended up holding onto Castiel's hips just to keep from falling over as Castiel dressed him. He let Castiel help him under the covers, burrowing his face down into the pillow while Castiel turned out the lights. He waited for the click of his door shutting, for the sound of Castiel's footfalls retreating down the hallway. Instead, he heard the rustle of fabric, the unmistakable sound of a zipper as Castiel changed into pajamas. Dean's clothes. He hurt again. But then Castiel was sliding under the covers, the mattress dipping with his weight. Dean kept his eyes closed, feeling instead of seeing: the warmth of another body in his bed, the smell of Castiel, the quiet rush of breath over his face as Castiel leaned in close, murmuring against his hair. Something like goodnight, but there were some other words Dean couldn't quite make out. He reached out as Castiel moved back to his half of the bed, fingers closing around a wrist. He felt Castiel shift, heard him sigh softly as he twined his fingers with Dean's in the space between them. The last thing he remembered was the sound of a car driving past outside. 

When he woke, the other side of the bed was empty. He barely made it to the bathroom in time to empty his stomach. 

\---

Downstairs, he found Castiel waiting for him in the kitchen. He had made coffee, and was sitting quietly at Dean's table, waiting or thinking or probably both. Dean wanted to crawl back into bed and never come out: he had never experienced this level of awkwardness in his entire life (which was certainly saying something). And the worst part of it was that this entire situation was his fault. 

He sighed, running a knuckled down the side of the hot mug in his hands. The coffee wasn't doing nearly enough to clear Dean's head. Probably because his hangover wasn't the primary reason for the shit storm currently raging in his skull. 

"So, Cas," Dean started, aiming for casual and falling miserably short. 

"Is this the part where I get an explanation?" Castiel asked, voice rough and grumpy. Castiel's hair was a mess, dark circles under his eyes. Dean felt warmth bloom through his body at the memory of the previous evening: cocooned in his bed, nose full of the smell of _Cas_ , his friend's sleep rumpled hair on the pillow next to him, bodies curved towards each other in sleep. Castiel's hand in his. His stomach plummeted, twisting sickly again: the memory should be only a haunting reminder of what he could never have, tucked away with the memory of their one night together. Mentally, he shelved it. Guilt. He should be feeling guilt: for putting Castiel through dealing with his incredibly drunk ass last night. 

"Kinda," Dean answered, taking a long drink of his coffee. It was too hot, burning down his throat. He wished he'd thought to spike it: hair of the dog, liquid courage - one or both of those reasons. _Why was I such an asshole last night?_ he thought. _This is none of my fucking business. Until I dragged Cas into it and…_ well, he owed his friend an explanation.  He took another sip of too-hot coffee, stalling. 

Castiel gazed at him levelly over the top of his own coffee mug. Dean suddenly remembered the blue mug that had been in Castiel's drawer, the ring inside. _I still have no fucking idea what to make of that_. 

Dean dropped his eyes to his own mug, clearing his throat. "I…look, man, I know it's none of my business. But," Dean paused, brow furrowing. He couldn't meet Castiel's eyes, too frightened of what he might see there, too scared of what his own eyes might betray. "Is there someone I should know about?" His voice was quiet. He had no right: no claim, no need to know. This was pushing boundaries dangerously close to where they didn't go. 

"What?" Castiel responded, voice soft and confused. 

"I'm a piece of shit, so I was snooping through your room when you came home yesterday," Dean answered. He scrubbed a hand over his face; his head was throbbing and this conversation was absolutely not helping. "I was looking for my tie. At first. And then I found it. Um, and I found," he paused, swallowed. "You have an engagement ring in your sock drawer." He heard Castiel gasp softly, eyes snapping up reflexively because that sounded like pain and Castiel being in pain was not okay. Castiel's mouth was slightly open, eyes wide with surprise: as Dean watched, a pink flush crept over his cheeks. "I'm sorry," Dean said. "I should have just waited until you got home." He took a deep breath. 

"You're right, you should have waited," Castiel replied finally, cheeks still colored. Dean nodded. 

"But," Dean said.

"What do I have an engagement ring for." Castiel's voice was flat: he was fighting hard for control of himself. Dean realized how much this was upsetting Castiel. He should have just kept his mouth shut. 

"Who," Dean said, the correction slipping out before he could stop himself. Who did he have it for - the what was plentifully obvious. "Who is she." Because Castiel would have introduced him, right? That was what you did, you introduced the love of your life to your best friend. 

"I'm not," Castiel started. He shook his head slightly. "There's no one." Something in his expression made Dean think that Castiel wasn't quite telling him the whole truth. So there had been someone, in the past? He couldn't quite puzzle it out. 

"But you have the ring," Dean said. Castiel swallowed, drank some of his coffee and stared out the window. Dean let him think. 

"It was my grandmother's," Castiel said, after a few minutes of silence. "I got it because…because there _was_ someone, a long time ago." Someone important enough to give a ring to, someone important enough to give his _grandmother's_ ring to, someone important enough that he hadn't been able to get rid of the ring. Kind of like Dean still had his dad's ring, tucked away upstairs. For the man sitting next to him, to whom he would never get to give it. _Cas was in love_ , Dean thought, a new kind of wonder and pain blooming in his chest. 

"You're not over her," Dean said, his tone somehow accusatory despite his best effort to control his voice. It hurt too much, cut too deep, and he wondered how much whiskey was left in the cupboard. The sunlight glared off the smooth surface of the table, the light too harsh. 

—-

Castiel sighed, fingers stroking over a small bump in the glaze on his coffee mug's handle.

"I'm not over…" Castiel repeated. _You_ , he wanted to say, _I'm not over you, assbutt, I've never been able to get over you. It's for you._ "It was a long time ago." The past needed to stay in the past, no matter how his heart has buoyed at waking with Dean this morning, listening to his breath and feeling the heat of his body under the shared blankets. "It's just a ring, Dean." Why were they both getting so upset about this? The ring had been a worry stone for Castiel's repression for years now. He had acquired it a month before Dean left for home, suddenly, before Castiel had saved up enough money to have it reworked for Dean, before Castiel had worked up the nerve to tell Dean how he felt. 

He had kept it with him, through years of phone calls and emails and then silence, holding it close on the worst nights. The nights when fantasies of him and Dean together came relentlessly, rose tinted and sweet, rough and unforgiving, and heartbreakingly intangible. 

"But there was a 'one that got away,'" Dean said, a wry smile on his lips. Castiel felt his own lips curve in a responding expression. Dean's face fell. "Yeah, I know about that." Castiel tilted his head and squinted slightly: Dean had never mentioned a significant relationship. "It was a long time ago," he said, eyes sliding to where his hands were wrapped around his mug, echoing Castiel's words. _It was you_ , Castiel wanted to scream. _It's always been you, assbutt._

Castiel looked down, picked at the thick blue fabric of his jeans instead of speaking. 

"But, so, there's no one," Dean said, and why he needed confirmation Castiel couldn't fathom. No, that was a lie: he had several very nice ideas, which were guaranteed to just be him projecting his own desires onto Dean. They were friends, close friends, best friends, and Castiel would not read more into it than that. Best friends told each other if they were seeing someone significant, and that was why Dean cared.

—-

Dean wasn't sure how much longer he could stay in this room before he started to cry. 

"You would know," Castiel replied. A part of Dean died at those words: because he _would_ know, if Castiel was interested. He knew Castiel almost as well as he knew himself, and he would _know_ if Castiel wanted him. 

"Okay," Dean said, his chest a hollow ache as he stood to pour them more coffee.

* * *

  _November_

"Any plans for the holiday?" Aaron asked, setting a fresh mug of coffee on his desk. Dean tried not to flinch, tried to stamp down the well of memories of Castiel bringing him coffee, the two of them in his bed like it was a sanctuary from the rest of the world. His head had been swimming with old memories for days now, the past a rising tide in his mind that was pulling him under. 

"Just going to see my brother," Dean replied, leaning back in his chair as smiled at his assistant. Aaron was great. Awesome, really, and about a year ago something had almost happened between them - except that Dean had a blanket policy against sleeping with anyone he worked with. He was glad it worked out how it had, anyways, since Aaron was both great at his job and a cool guy to boot. It was almost funny, now, to think back to that time. He hadn't really thought about anyone but Castiel in months. 

"Will Cas go with you?" Aaron asked. Dean startled a little, wondering just how much he actually talked about Castiel if Aaron was suggesting this like it was a done deal. 

"Uh, no," Dean replied. "He's, uh, he's got his own family." Which was true, even if Dean knew Castiel was mostly estranged from his family. God fucking damn it, he had to figure out a way to fix this thing with Castiel. He needed his friend, even if he questioned the ethics of dragging his seriously intense emotional baggage into the relationship. He just needed Castiel, however he could get him. "What are your plans?" he asked, trying to reign in his focus to the present conversation. 

Aaron talked about visiting his family, the crazy stories his rabbi grandfather always had. They chatted a little more, and then Dean thanked Aaron for the coffee and got back to work.

Maybe he would be brave enough to go talk to Castiel tonight. Probably not. He thought the clerk at the liquor store on his way home was starting to recognize him. 

* * *

 The metal was cold against his fingers, the inside smooth with wear. Dean turned the gold ring, his dad's wedding band, inspecting it from another angle. How could he freak out at Castiel when he had this sitting in his own dresser? Except that he knew who he had meant to give it to, who he still wanted to give it to. And that person had an engagement ring for someone else in their dresser. 

He slipped the ring back into its box, letting the lid snap shut before he dropped it back in with his socks.

—-

"Dean?" Castiel called out softly for his friend in the still dark house. No response. He wrapped his fingers around the small object in his pocket, worrying it's newly unfamiliar contours as if they could provide him with the courage to do this. He called out again. 

Upstairs, he heard a door open. 

"Cas?" Dean called out, his voice rough. Had he been sleeping? It was four on Saturday afternoon. Usually, Dean would be getting home from being out at the gym or picking up something to make for dinner. Castiel felt the deep ache of missing his friend: the last two weeks had been some of the longest of his entire life. 

"Can I talk to you?" Castiel asked, standing at the bottom of the stairs as Dean appeared at the top, hair mussed and shirt rumpled. He had been napping. "I'm sorry for waking you," Castiel said. "I can come back..." He swallowed, hating how uncomfortable he felt. What had happened to them? He put his hand in his pocket, worrying smooth metal. 

"Nah," Dean said, walking down the stairs. Castiel stepped aside to let him pass. "You want a beer?" he offered, heading for the kitchen. 

"Please," Castiel replied. 

He felt like a coward, letting slow minutes slide by as they both sipped at cold beers standing in Dean's kitchen. Finally, Dean cleared his throat. 

"So, Cas, what's up?" Dean asked, and Castiel pretended he didn't see Dean cringe at the awkwardness of his words. He just wanted his best friend back. This was probably a giant mistake. He should just leave, and maybe in another week...but Castiel already knew there was no going back. They had passed the point of no return in their relationship a decade ago, except neither of them had realized it. Because how do you realize that you're in love when it just feels like you've finally woken up? As if you're finally in your natural state, and you can breathe. Love was supposed to be earth shattering. Castiel thought it just felt more like coming home. _Now or never_ , he told himself. This was, as it were, the opportune moment. 

"I, uh." Castiel stopped, took a deep breath. Dean was kind enough to take a sip of his beer instead of staring at him while he gathered his thoughts. "I needed to tell you something."

"So shoot," Dean replied, his posture apparently relaxed, although Castiel could see the tension just below the surface. 

"When you asked me," and he almost said yesterday, couldn't quite remember exactly how long ago that conversation had been (and wasn't it poetic that he and Dean were back in Dean's kitchen for part two). He tried again. "When you asked me if there was someone," he continued softly, fingers toying with the ring in his pocket, eyes downcast. 

"And you said there was," Dean supplied, voice harsh. Castiel's eyes met Dean's before dropping again. Dean cleared his throat. "Sorry, there was." Dean didn't sound patient, and Castiel felt fear snake icily through his gut. 

"One that got away," Castiel clarified, raising his eyes to Dean's as he pulled the ring from his pocket. He set it on the counter between them. "It was true," he said, as Dean frowned at the ring. He moved closer to Castiel as Castiel held out the ring in his palm for Dean to see. It was platinum, hints of a vine detail in the edging, three small diamonds set into the band. His grandmother's ring, reworked for a man's finger. The jeweler had to add metal to make it large enough for Dean's finger, but had kept echoes of the original design. Castiel thought it was still recognizable. He heard Dean's sharp intake of breath, his fingers skating along the underside of Castiel's hand as he raised it to look more closely. He recognized it, then. Good. "It, uh," Castiel swallowed. "No pressure, or anything," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But it was you." Dean's eyes snapped up, boring intently into Castiel's. Castiel felt his breath catch in his throat, heart hammering. This was it, he was standing on the precipice, and his life was about to be irrevocably altered for better or for worse. _Til death do us part_. 

Dean stepped closer, closing the gap between them as he wrapped his hand around Castiel's, securing the ring in Castiel's closed fist. 

"Cas," he said softly, their faces inches apart. "Really?" His voice was soft as a child's, disbelieving wonder and hopeful innocence that shook Castiel to his core. He nodded. Dean kissed him. 

Castiel felt the world spin dizzily as Dean's lips met his own, a soft press that lingered gently, like a tiger in a zoo pressing a paw to the glass: contained power, uncertain restraints in place. He wanted to shatter the glass, to convince Dean to let go and show him what he felt. But Dean's lips were gone, and Castiel opened his eyes to see his friend's expression of excitement. 

"Can," Dean started, breathless, "can you wait here for a second, Cas? I just, I'll uh," Dean kissed him again, a firm press of their mouths together and Dean's hand cupping his face, "I'll be right back, promise," Dean said earnestly. He dashed from the kitchen, barely managing not to run but Castiel could hear that he took the stairs two at a time. 

Castiel leaned back against the counter, trying very hard not to get his hopes up. His fingers drifted to his lips. Dean had kissed him. Chastely, but Castiel had felt the restraint in it. He felt warm, elated. It wasn't a yes, but it was more than he had dared to hope for. It wasn't a no. 

"Cas?" He heard Dean call out. He sounded like he was still in his room. 

"Dean," Castiel replied. Footsteps. Thundering arhythmically as Dean plunged down the stairs. He appeared in the doorway to the kitchen.  

"Uh," Dean said uncertainly. "Come with me?" He waited, eyes bright and eager, a grin spreading across his face as Castiel crossed the room towards him. "C'mon," Dean said, taking Castiel's hand and leading him upstairs to his bedroom. 

His confidence seemed to evaporate then, though, and Dean paused nervously as they stood just inside the room and turned to face Castiel. Castiel could smell Dean in here, the sleep-sweet concentration of smell in his bedroom. He reached out a hand, resting it on Dean's shoulder. Dean was nervous-anxious, but everything told Castiel that Dean was standing at his own precipice. He waited as Dean glanced shyly at him, reaching into his own pocket. 

"I, uh." Dean faltered. He held out his own hand in the shrinking space between their bodies, a gold ring resting in his palm. "Yeah," he managed. Castiel couldn't decide if he wanted to laugh or cry more, and the noise that clawed its way out of his throat was more of a strangled sob than anything else. Yes. This was a yes. 

His heart soared, skin lighting up as if his whole body were rejoicing. He felt dizzy, high. His eyes met Dean's again, and he realized the blurriness must be tears. 

"Cas," Dean said softly, and Castiel realized he had not managed to make any words since Dean had retrieved him from the kitchen. 

"Yes," he said, then nodded. Dean grinned at him, tears in his eyes too. 

"How long?" Dean whispered, his free hand reaching out to cup Castiel's cheek, pull their foreheads to touch. "How long, Cas?" 

"Since before you left," Castiel replied, and the squeeze of Dean's hand told him he didn't need to clarify: a decade, a lifetime, as long as there have been stars in the sky I have loved you. 

"That was my mug," Dean said, thumb skating over Castiel's cheekbone. "You kept it." Castiel felt his face heat. Of course Dean had recognized it. 

"Yes," he answered softly. Dean kissed him, tenderly, finally wrapping his arms around Castiel to hold him close. Their lips parted only to seek out more skin- cheeks and eyelids and necks, stubbled jaws. 

"Can," Dean murmured against Castiel's skin, "can I wear it?"

Castiel felt as if his entire body was expanding, light reaching outwards. Surely he must be glowing. "Are you saying yes?" he asked, separating from Dean just enough to meet his eyes. 

"Are you asking?" Dean said, wary hope in his voice. 

"I mean, I can get down on one knee," Castiel deadpanned. Dean laughed a little at that, squeezing Castiel and resting his forehead against Castiel's temple. 

"Nah, man," he replied. "I just...are you sure?" 

"I've had some time to think about it, you know," Castiel replied. "What about you?" 

"Fuck, yes," Dean replied, laughing a little. "I've…I wanted to give you this for years," he said, holding up the ring. "I just…I couldn't lose you. I thought I could be fine with just being your friend." Castiel unwound his left arm from their embrace, waggling his ring finger pointedly. Dean grinned as he slid the ring on - a bit big. They could get it sized. Dean's ring slid onto his finger, and Castiel's vision turned blurry again. 

"I'm still your friend," Castiel said, smiling as Dean pulled him close.

"Yeah, but now I can do this," Dean teased, one hand sliding lower so that he could get a good handful of Castiel's ass. Castiel couldn't help himself: he laughed, joy bubbling out from deep within him in quantities beyond his wildest imagination. 

"So what now?" Castiel asked. Dean raised his eyebrows, hand still firmly planted on Castiel's ass. Castiel decided very quickly that he could be on board with that plan. He kissed Dean again, hungrily this time, demanding and eager. 

It was perfect, Castiel thought, better than any way he'd ever dreamed this happening. Their clothes fell away like water, no one tangled in sleeves, no fumbling clumsily with shoes or socks. The bed was welcoming, the sheets fresh against their bare skin. Dean pressed against him, skin hot and soft, the shift of muscle beneath his hands, all of it incredibly easy as they simply seemed to _fit_. Like they had been practicing their whole lives for this moment, and now that it was here, muscle memory guided them seamlessly together. 

He sighed as Dean trailed kisses down his chest, hands tangling in Dean's hair and stroking over his shoulders, knees falling open to make room for his friend - his lover's body - between his legs. Dean paused at his hips, biting a little at his hipbones, seeming hesitant. 

"It's not going to bite," Castiel teased, unsure why Dean had paused. Dean looked up at him, eyes wide and serious, pupils blown. A smile flitted across his face as Castiel's words registered, but his expression was all earnestness when he spoke.

"You want this?" he asked softly, the question devoid of tease, the meaning of the words utterly unlike Castiel had ever heard them uttered in such a context before. He reached out a hesitant hand, wrapping it gently around Castiel's dick. 

"Dean," Castiel gasped. "Yes, yes," he answered. He lost words again as Dean squeezed gently and began to stroke him. 

"Tell me, Cas," Dean said, his voice a growl now, as he wrapped his lips around the head of Castiel's cock. 

"Yes, I want this," Castiel gasped, fighting for enough focus to speak. "I want you," he said. "I've wanted you forever, Dean," he confessed, the last word cut off on a gasp. His back arched as he buried his hands in Dean's hair again, fingers stroking over his scalp, not guiding or forcing himself deeper into Dean's mouth, merely seeking as many points of contact as he could find. He shivered, feeling himself tipping close to the edge and it was too soon, he wasn't ready. 

"Stop," he gasped, hands fisting in Dean's hair. 

"Ow," Dean said, one hand squeezing at the base of Castiel's cock. 

"Sorry," Castiel replied, releasing his hands quickly, the idea of Dean in pain more effective than his fingers at pulling him back from the edge. Dean smirked a little at him, crawled back up the bed to kneel between Castiel's legs, framing Castiel's head with his forearms. 

"It's okay," Dean said, kissing him softly. "Good?" he murmured against Castiel's lips.

"So good," Castiel replied. He frowned a little as he picked back up on a disrupted trail of thought. He cupped Dean's face with his hands, letting Dean deepen the kiss momentarily before pulling back and pressing Dean's face away from his gently. "I wasn't done telling you things though." Dean let his lips drift to Castiel's neck.

"Then by all means, continue," Dean said, before licking a stripe along one of the tendons in his neck that made Castiel shiver again. 

"I love you," Castiel said. "I have for a long time." Dean's lips froze, pressed against his neck, and for a moment Castiel was terrified he had said the wrong thing. 

"Cas," Dean choked out, and then he was wrapping his arms around Castiel, face still buried against his neck, manhandling Castiel so the two of them could be pressed tightly together. "Me too," he murmured against Castiel's skin. Castiel pressed a kiss to Dean's hair, his shoulder, whatever part of him he could reach with his lips. Dean raised his head a little, finding Castiel's lips again. This kiss was different: he could taste Dean's tears, feel them drying against his skin. He clung tightly, letting the pads of his fingers dig into the muscle of Dean's back, dizzy with elation, with desperation. He moaned as Dean shifted his hips against him, reminding him that they were both naked, that he really wanted to come, that he had found his way back into Dean Winchester's bed except that this time it was so much better because he was here to stay. 

"Need you, Cas," Dean said, rolling his hips again and dragging another deep moan from Castiel. "Fuck, the sounds you make." Castiel felt his face curving into a smile, only to slacken a half-moment later as another roll of Dean's hips brought a wave of pleasure crashing through him. 

"Are you," he breathed, feeling desperate to get the show on the road, "do you want to?" Castiel felt embarrassed at the idea of saying the words out loud, but Dean was looking at him curiously now, unsure of what he meant, cupping his cheek and dropping a kiss on his nose. Dean smiled at him. 

"Tell me what you want, Cas," he said. 

"You," Castiel replied, a simple truth that radiated through his entire being. "Inside me," he confessed, as Dean kissed his cheek, claimed his mouth. Castiel slid a hand down Dean's back to grab his ass, encouraging the rolls of his hips, pressing them more firmly together. "Now," he clarified.

"Yes," Dean growled, kissing his way down Castiel's body again, quick presses of lips and stubble tracing a fast trail. He grabbed the backs of Castiel's knees, pressing them up and open. Castiel groaned loudly as he realized what Dean was going for, let his hips press upwards into the line of kisses that Dean trailed down his cock, over his balls. His hands joined Dean's, pulling his legs open and out of the way as Dean licked over his entrance, teasing around the rim and digging in with little prelude. 

"Shit," Castiel said, as his mind overloaded from the pleasure. Dean was…Castiel hadn't been sure where Dean was going to fall on this issue, and his level of enthusiasm was on par with some of Castiel's wildest imaginings. Dean's hands held him down, kept his hips pinned as he tried to buck up into the pleasure, seeking more, encouraging Dean to lick in deeper, lick harder. 

He let out a noise that was half shout, half groan when Dean finally slipped a finger inside of him. It felt good - right, incredible. He was so turned on that he felt like every nerve in his body was alight, and he ached for the feeling of more, the feeling of fullness, the feeling of Dean inside of him. Dean slid in a second finger, his body easily relaxing to allow the intrusion. 

"You ready for me?" Dean asked him, licking around his fingers as he curved them to tease inside of Castiel. "Love the way you open for me," he added, almost as if he were talking to himself. 

"Yes," Castiel replied, "Dean, I'm, oh," he trailed off, losing his words as Dean's fingers found a place inside him that made his whole body light up with pleasure. Dean was gentle as he withdrew his fingers, dropping a kiss to Castiel's forehead as he scrambled to the side of the bed to dig through his nightstand. 

Dean paused as he turned back to Castiel, seeming transfixed as their eyes met. 

"Fuck," he whispered. Castiel wondered what he was seeing, what he must look like, because Dean looked like the sweetest sin Castiel had ever encountered. His hair was a wreck, his skin flushed beneath his freckles. The perfect green of his eyes was a thin ring around the wide black of his pupils. He looked debauched, desperate. Castiel reached out to grab him, kissing Dean roughly. 

"Cas," Dean said, when they parted, pressing his forehead to Castiel's. "Cas," like he couldn't quite believe what was happening. Castiel smiled. 

"I still want you," he said, loving the way that Dean's eyes darkened at his words. "Now would be good," he suggested, wiggling his hips at Dean as Dean fumbled with the cap on the tube of lube he had produced. 

"Shit," Dean cursed. "This, you, should…fuck, nothing this awesome is ever legal." Castiel laughed, deep and full. 

"Rest assured, I'm fairly certain that this is in fact quite illegal in several states." Outlawed by outdated, essentially unenforceable rules, but still. Dean looked up at him, fingers now coated in lube, and grinned widely. 

"I knew it was too much fun," he grinned. He pressed a slick finger to Castiel's entrance, the tip slipping easily inside. "Yeah, that's it," he encouraged softly, as Castiel moaned in response, "open for me." Castiel watched Dean's face, entranced by the fascination writ there as he watched his fingers slide in and out. Castiel whimpered softly as Dean's fingers brushed lightly over his prostate, soft pleasure blooming low in his gut.

"Dean," Castiel managed to gasp, "now." That came out as more of a growl, but he had Dean's attention. Dean was quick on the draw, condom rolled on quickly, more lube, and then he was leaned over Castiel, nudging at his entrance, seemingly frozen as he looked into Castiel's eyes. 

His mouth worked as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't come up with the words. Castiel reached up and hooked a hand behind his head, pulling him down into a kiss. Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel again, holding him close as he slowly pressed inside him. 

Castiel felt a new sort of satiety as Dean filled him. They clung to each other as he adjusted, mouths joined but more breathing together than actually kissing. Dean didn't move until Castiel rolled his hips up, asking for more. He was slow, gentle, as they adjusted. 

Castiel thought he could be satisfied with this, happy just here holding on to Dean, one hand lose on his own cock as they rocked easily together. 

"Turn over, Cas?" Dean asked. "I think you'll like it more." And Castiel should have known, should have guessed that Dean would be more focused on his pleasure than Dean's own, but the difference with the change in position still surprised him. It was so much more intense, Dean's thrusts hitting his prostate and pushing him ever-closer to the edge. He felt Dean's lips on his shoulder, kissing at the ink under his skin, and Castiel shivered. Dean scraped his teeth over the tattoo, fucking harder into Castiel as he moaned. 

"Dean," Castiel whined, his hand striping faster as he got close to coming. Dean covered his hand, their fists joining. But it wasn't their hands that pushed him over, it was the feeling of Dean sealing his lips over the tattoo, sucking at Castiel's skin. Finally, finally, the itch was gone. He came hard, body curling in on itself as he shot onto the sheets below them. He felt Dean shudder, felt his rhythm falter, felt Dean start to come inside him. Dean held him tightly, so tightly he could hardly breathe, riding out his orgasm as deep inside Castiel as he could reach. 

After, Castiel thought that he had never felt so contented in his life. Clean-up was easy, the two of them moving in tandem and collapsing back into bed together, exhausted and sated. 

"What's this, Cas?" Dean asked, tucking his chest against Castiel's back, lips at his tattoo again. 

"You," Castiel replied. 

Dean was quiet for a moment, paused thinking. "It's not exactly a great likeness," he teased, when Castiel didn't elaborate. 

"It's you," Castiel said, turning to face Dean. "It's the chemical associated with feeling love. It's love, under my skin. It's you." Dean's face slackened in surprise, his eyes turning soft and almost pained with emotion. 

"Cas," he breathed. 

Dean kissed him. They fell asleep like that, entwined in the mess of the sheets, holding one another close. 

\---

In the morning, Castiel woke before Dean. He slipped downstairs, and returned with a mug of coffee for each of them. The sat together, backs against the headboard and toes tucked under the blankets, drinking their coffee and watching the first rays of sunlight stream in through the window. Dean rested his head against Castiel's shoulder. 

Voice still rough with sleep, Dean asked "So do I really get to marry you now?"

Castiel smiled, feeling like he had finally come home. "Yes," he answered, turning his head to press a kiss into Dean's hair. 

THE END


End file.
